


The Disappearing Island

by tikistitch



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Atlantis: The Lost Empire - Freeform, M/M, a bit of lovecraft mixed in, also lewis carroll, and the alice books, charles darwin - Freeform, cthulhu - Freeform, no clue, why did I write a victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan is serving as a naturalist on board the HMS <i>Vigilant</i> when the ship stumbles upon the ancient island of Nightlantis during a tour of the Pacific in the 1800s.  There the young surgeon unwittingly joins in a contest to win the beguiling Prince Cecil's hand in marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Santa Cruz Island, the Galapagos, Year of Our Lord 1856_

 

“Doctor!”

The nest was almost within his grasp. Not one, not two, but three – three! – mottled brown and dun-colored eggs nestled there, tucked inside the tight weaving of grass and thin twigs.

Carlos repositioned himself on the branch, creeping carefully just a bit further out from the broad trunk, wincing as the wood creaked underneath his weight. He tried to avoid looking down. The tree in which he was perched had the misfortune to be positioned directly over a cliff, the nest dangling above a sheer drop to a pool of water far below. Carlos wasn’t exactly sure how deep the pool ran: perhaps it was twenty feet; perhaps only two feet. At any rate, he didn’t relish the idea of falling.

“Doctor!”

Carefully, he pushed further out along the branch. It was just inches away now. He could brush the nest with his fingertips. The branch crackled, the sound somewhat masked by the ripple of the nearby waterfall. The eggs belonged to Galapagos finches, as reported by Mr. Darwin. Carlos believed this was a new subspecies: the beaks of the adult specimens he had collected were remarkably different from any of the ones his correspondent had presented to the Royal Society. 

The branch sagged worryingly. Carlos decided the only option would be swift, bold action: he would spring out, grab the nest, and then scramble back before the branch broke off completely. It was a foolproof plan. Probably. Slowly and carefully, he shinnied out on the branch as far as he dared, and then braced himself, counting down: ready, steady….

_“Carlos!”_

He froze in mid-lunge, nest almost in his grasp, startled by the sound of his little-used Christian name.

He shifted, just a fraction. The tree creaked, the added moment of his weight combined with distance from the center of gravity contributed to a catastrophic failure. The branch snapped, sending Carlos, the nest, and a large chunk of the tree all hurtling downward, now captives of the gravitational pull of the earth.

Carlos had time to recite a single Hail Mary and then, squeezing his eyes shut, prayed that the impact would eventuate a quick death. He hit the surface and, still bracing, plunged down into the clear cold water. And continued to plunge, sinking and sinking into the deep pool. 

His eyes snapped open, and he saw before him in the crystal clear water the rocky shelf he had just barely missed hitting. Luck had been with him, and he had hit the water in approximately the center of a deep depression. His lungs were beginning to burn, so, struggling against his now sodden clothes and heavy boots, he swam his way slowly upwards, stroking his arms and kicking for what seemed like forever until, finally, gasping, he breached the surface. 

Carlos spat water and then wheezed in a deep breath. He looked around at the rippling pool.

On the edge of the water, tangled in the branch that had fallen along with him, lay the nest, the tiny eggs still tucked within. 

“Hey!” exclaimed Carlos, not believing his luck.

“Doctor!” He heard running footsteps, and, as he finally grabbed the nest and dog-paddled to the rim of the pool, he espied the cabin boy racing down to him. The youth, flush of face and sandy of hair, carried Carlos's pack of samples and his firearm and longbow on his back. “Doctor MacLachlan,” he cried, looking frantic. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine!” said Carlos, “and what's more, I have my prize!” Still treading water, he proudly handed off the nest to Christian.

Christian rolled his eyes as he tucked away the nest. “Next time, let me climb the damn tree. It's what I'm good at. Anyways, we need to quit swimmin' and get goin’, Doctor.”

“So soon?” asked Carlos. Christian stuck out a hand, and with his assistance, Carlos scrambled out of the pool, now sopping wet. Carlos set himself down on a rock and pulled off his boots, pouring out water, as well as a tadpole. He smiled as it wriggled away.

“We're shovin’ off,” said Christian.

“What?”

Christian looked left and right, and then leaned close to Carlos. “Pirates,” he whispered. “Sighted nearby. The cap'n's goin' after them, for sure.”

Carlos flashed a grin. Pirates weren’t the overwhelming threat they had once been in this part of the Pacific, but could still be a nuisance. And it would be just like the captain to strike out after them. “Do you have my samples?”

Christian hefted his bag. “I have what you’ve shot today. And I have your rifle.” He grunted. “And your bow. Though it’s getting damned awful heavy.”

“You should try archery, Christian,” said Carlos, grabbing his weaponry. “It’s a great gentlemanly pursuit!”

“Ain’t exactly a gentleman,” muttered the boy.

Carlos slapped Christian on the back, and they made their way back to the ship. Carlos whistled as he walked, immersed in the sights and sounds. These islands were such a contrast to the often gloomy Scottish highlands where he had grown up. There was life abounding here, and strange sights. It was like seeing the great web of life, all spread out before him. 

“You see that, Christian?” he asked, pointing up a sheer rock face now on their right hand side. 

“Looks like more rocks,” grunted the youth. He let out a startled sound as Carlos grabbed him by the shoulder. 

“But look up! Do you see that white line, up about midway?”

Christian rolled his eyes. Going on these walks with Carlos was sometimes exciting for him, as when Carlos fired his gun. He had a keen eye and deadly aim. But sometimes it was like being back in class, and not in a pleasant way. “Yes, I see the white line.”

“Know what that is? Shells! I scrambled up the other day to have a look!”

The boy did not seem terribly impressed by this natural marvel. “Well, all right.”

“So, don't you wonder how they got up there? Sea shells, up so high?”

Christian stared at Carlos. “Because God put them there,” he stated, as if it was the most obvious thing.

“Christian. It's all a matter of geophysics! This rock used to be under water, and then through the course of time, was shifted upwards. Mr. Lyell has a theory!”

“Do you know him then? This Mr. Lyell?”

“Well, no, but I have his book.”

“He can stay in his book. Come on, we need to get dinner.” Carlos continued walking with Christian towards Academy Bay. The _Vigilant_ had been docked for the last few days in the sheltered harbor on Santa Cruz, and Carlos had enjoyed a very pleasant time observing the abundant local wildlife, including the skittering iguanas; many species of fishing birds like pelicans and herons; sea lions, which appeared deceptively lazy but, as Carlos could attest, were capable of sudden rapid movement on land when threatened; and the amazing giant tortoises, from which the islands were named, and which some said could be centuries old.

 _“Buenos dias, Carlos!”_ came a voice. Carlos waved to the regional governor, who was standing among a small group of men and women. Christian grunted in frustration, so Carlos sent him onwards while he stopped to greet the man. 

_“Buenos dias, Gobernador!”_ said Carlos, glad of the Spanish his mother had insisted on teaching him. He found his Iberian heritage and Christian name, which caused no end of annoyances back in his native country of Scotland, stood him in good stead with the Ecuadorians who populated the Galapagos islands, as it had with many of the natives they had met on their journey around South America. The captain had soon cottoned onto this as well, and often brought Carlos along when they first docked in a new area. This, Carlos believed, along with his willingness to take on the tasks of the ship’s surgeon, had ingratiated him to the captain, and probably caused his unofficial promotion from a supernumerary gentleman traveler to one of the captain’s trusted confidantes.

The Governor was now indicating one of his companions, who held samples of various butterflies he had collected. Carlos expressed his grateful thanks. The residents had been very generous in pointing out the dwelling places of much local wildlife.

The Governor’s daughter was also present, smiling and batting her eyes at him. Carlos searched his mind for her name. Was it Maria? Well, probably. The captain swore she had developed an affection for Carlos. This was, of course, absurd. He had only been here a few days: he barely knew the girl! But it wasn’t the first time on this voyage the local functionary had thought to bring along a daughter or niece or young second cousin when Carlos had showed up. The captain obviously thought such shenanigans were hilarious, but they only caused Carlos a deep embarrassment. 

Carlos, clothes still damp, his hair plastered everywhere, muttered a goodbye to the girl, bowing and kissing her hand. This produced more ridiculous giggling and eye-fluttering. He finally managed to extricate himself, and, quite wet and somewhat red in the face, made for the _Vigilant_ , where preparations were already underway to raise anchor.

 

“So, I heard you took some time out from scientific pursuits to take a bath today, Doctor,” boomed the captain as he strode into his dining area. He was a large man, but quick and graceful as a dancer. He seemed to Carlos to be as one with his ship, the Vigilant. The brig was ostensibly in Her Majesty's service on a surveying expedition, but Cochrane would never shy away from tangling with pirates. “Hoping to impress Carmelita?”

“Carmelita?”

“The Governor’s daughter!”

“Oh, was that her name?” The captain chuckled. Carlos barely looked up, so intent was he on tuning his viola over the creaks and groans of the gently rocking ship. He attempted to change the subject. “I didn’t think you would have time for a duet,” he said. “If what Christian tells me is true.”

“Christian’s got a big head, and a bigger mouth,” grumbled the captain, who took up his violin. He ran a bow over the strings and winced. “I'm going to have a chat with the boy's father when we're back in port. Bad enough I have a Spaniard on board as my surgeon!”

Carlos raised an eyebrow and repeated the rest of their familiar refrain. “As you know, I am Scottish on my father's side.”

“Even worse. A Scot!”

Carlos smiled wryly. Some months prior, while they were still on land, and Carlos had been considering the position as the _Vigilant_ 's resident naturalist, he and the captain had sat around at the local pub, arguing about music, one of the captain's obsessions. There they had unfortunately encountered a gentleman who had defamed Carlos's father. Carlos had been prepared to show the man a rare flash of his temper, but was prevented from doing so when Tom Cochrane instead flattened the bounder with one punch. Their friendship thus sealed, a few short days later Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan bade farewell to friends and family and embarked on the _Vigilant_.

“So what prize did this escapade bring you, Carlos?” prompted the captain. “I'll warrant it wasn't gold and jewels.”

“No, but I believe I have uncovered a new subspecies of the specimens Mr. Darwin described on his recent voyage. The bills on these finches are distinct from the examples he presented, and I believe represent an independent adaptation.”

“Adaptation? Oh, isn't that fancy.”

“Mr. Darwin is developing a new theory.”

“He's a Wedgwood, ain't he?” said the captain with a wink. “I was briefly enamored of one of their girls! Pretty little thing. Skin pale as bone china.”

“Tom, is there a woman in England you haven't been involved with?”

“Ha! I'm too much of a gentleman to comment.”

“And too little of one to refrain.” They smiled good-naturedly at one another.

“And what of your lovely lady friend, Virtue, is it? Chastity? I saw you picked up a letter in a feminine hand at our last port of call!”

“Temperance,” sighed Carlos, who suddenly pretended to be terribly interested in tuning his viola. There were three Hatrack sisters, daughters of Lord and Lady Hatrack: Patience, Constance, and Temperance. They were reputed to be lovely. And Carlos had the rare misfortune to be engaged to the youngest.

“What's got into you, lad?” asked the Captain, though his voice had softened. “It's a good match.”

“It would be, were she not actually in love with my younger brother.” He looked around, suddenly abashed. He hadn't actually admitted this tidbit to his friend prior to this, and now was regretting his confession.

The captain laughed, and slapped Carlos on the back. “Is that all?”

Carlos coughed. “I thought that was all, yes. Is there not supposed to be also some mutual affection?”

“That will grow in time, son, take my word for it. But now you must tell me what happened in that matter.”

Carlos scratched the back of his neck and now pretended to shuffle through his sheet music. “Prior to our engagement, my brother evidently made some … promises to the young lady. To Miss Temperance. But as his temperament appears to be as fickle as mine is constant, his affection for her was short-lived. Unfortunately, her father is a man of some renown in our community. In order to avoid a scandal, and his displeasure, my family promised … well, the promised _me_ to her.”

Cochrane was hunched over, squinting, as he tended to do when he was trying to work out a puzzle. Carlos suspected the old man's eyes had grown somewhat weak, but he would never consent to wearing spectacles. “Steady, good-looking young medical doctor. You seems a fine prize, Carlos.” 

“If you say so.” But he refrained from confessing the rest of his concerns, even to his friend: Miss Temperance Hatrack was lovely. Everyone said so! And so why did Carlos feel nothing for her, other than the faint sting of boredom that always surfaced during their conversations? Not that they had been conversations, but rather Carlos's feigned attentions whilst the young woman rattled on about this or that ridiculous gossip. 

He somehow didn't feel the least bit drawn to her. You could mark it down to his resentment over his somewhat carefree brother's abandonment. But to be quite honest, Carlos had never felt such a thing for any young lady. In all the years his brother, nine months younger, had gone from fascination to fascination, conquest to conquest, Carlos had merely watched, and worried that he had been born lacking some particular sentiment. 

And so he had absconded: when Tom Cochrane had shown up the next month following the announcement of the engagement, promising his father three years steady employment and an honorable service, Carlos had packed his medical books and fled. 

Cochrane had a cake of rosin, and was treating his bow. He drew the bow once again over his violin strings and smiled, obviously pleased with the effect. “Well, enough of this talk. Good none of the men can overhear, they'll think we're old biddies gossiping. Come, let us quit stalling and play the reel.”

His face broke into a smile, and Carlos bent over his viola, and the sound of music, soft and bright, began to emit from the captain's mess.

But they had just begun to relax into the music when there came an insistent knocking on the hatch.

“Enter!” yelled Cochrane. “Who is interrupting my concerto?”

“Schooner. Spotted off the starboard bow,” the mate told him. He was missing a couple of teeth, but his grin was broad. “They're flying a black standard.”

The captain was already on his feet. He carefully tucked his precious violin back in its case. “Surgeon, lay out your knives, and we'll pray we don't need your services. We're on the hunt!” And, rubbing his hands together, he was out the doorway, making for the deck.

 

Many long hours later, Carlos collapsed into the hammock that had been strung above the large table in the chart room, which doubled as his quarters. He thought he had managed to save the mate's leg with a lot of careful suturing, but now it would be a battle to avoid infection, especially in this part of the world. He cast a glance at the bag of samples he had gleaned from their last port, awaiting his attention, but decided that he needed a quick nap before he could attend to them.

As the ship gently rocked, Carlos recollected the last few hours. When it became apparent the pirate vessel would not surrender without a fight, Cochrane had rapidly turned his ship to the side so his brig's long guns faced them. The canon blasted, raising fire and smoke and that acrid smell. And then there was answering fire, as planks sheared and cracked from the assault of the red-hot cannonballs. It was all shouting and confusion, and blood: so much blood. 

They had lost two crew, although the pirates had fared much worse. One of the enemy casualties was on Carlos's account. The man had evidently sneaked aboard the Vigilant when the ships were lashed together, and had made his way belowdecks to the mess room Carlos was using as a surgery. Carlos was concentrating so closely on the matter at hand – he tended to get wrapped up in his work – that he didn't reckon anything was amiss until his surgical assistant – one of the stewards who was getting on in years – emitted a frightened yelp. But the pirate hadn't the time to even raise his blade at Carlos, as the doctor had grabbed one of his surgical knives and, nearly before the thought had reached his conscious mind, thrown it across the narrow room, stabbing the unlucky pirate in the neck. The villain sunk to his knees, and Carlos was back attending to his patient, who had gotten too close to an explosion and had been peppered with bits of sharp shrapnel. Carlos, as has been remarked, occasionally displayed a rather sharp temper.

And then Carlos had barely gotten the last bit of shredded cannonball flung into a bucket when the boatswain, a big guy named Gregg, had limped in, a large section of the deck sticking clean through one thigh. The man had fairly ordered Carlos to just saw off the leg so he could get on with his duties by God, but Carlos would have none of it. A doctor's first job being, after all, to do no harm. He discovered that by the same God’s grace the chunk of torn wood had not broken any bones nor severed any major vessels, and so, with a healthy dose of rum applied to the boatswain and the appendage, Carlos took to stitching up the damage.

The siege did not last long, and at some point during the time Carlos was sewing the mate back together, the other vessel had surrendered to the Vigilant. The stitched-up mate, though muttering something about getting repairs underway, drifted off to sleep or unconsciousness, rum bottle still clutched in his hand, and Carlos, with strict instructions to get the bloodstains from the impaled pirate cleaned up as soon as possible, decided a nap was in order.

Before retiring to his hammock, he removed his stained shirt and washed the caked blood off his hands and arms as best he could. He had pulled a much-folded letter out of his belongings. The envelope was addressed in a feminine script, and it was faintly scented with perfume. He hopped up into his hammock and held it close for a moment. There was no need to take it out of the envelope and read it: he had already pored over the words countless times. He knew its contents by heart. He sighed, refolded it and tucked it into an inside jacket pocket. And then, at last, he nodded off.

 

Music sounded all around him. Carlos was playing his viola, but not in the captain’s mess. He was out on deck, surrounded by the crew. They were sawing away at fiddles, plucking at Jew’s harps, thumping tambourines, and generally making a great commotion, stomping around, dancing. The music was weirdly intoxicating, like swimming in a beer barrel. 

And then the boatswain appeared in front of him. His leg was gone, replaced by a great pegleg. Carlos was annoyed. He'd spent the entire afternoon sewing the fellow back together. The nerve!

And then the boatswain grabbed him by the arm, and they were dancing.

_I’m the bosun Gregg_  
 _And I lost my gamey leg_  
 _Fighting scummy pirates_  
 _I lost my gamey leg_

_I shipped out from Boston … way-yoo!_  
 _Shipped out from Boston … wayyyy-yo!_  
 _Shipped out from Boston … way-yooo!_  
 _Shipped out from Boston, to find my gamey leg!_

Carlos pushed the man aside. “I saved your leg. This isn't happening.” He stood, panting, feeling dizzy from the music and being twirled around and around like a toy.

But now it wasn't the crew making merry, it was the pirates. Many faces, laughing and leering at him.

He was caught from behind and whirled again into the dance. It wasn't Gregg. This time he couldn't quite see the person, although he noticed they had light, silvery hair.

_Elder God is deep_  
 _Lying in his sleep_  
 _He lies beneath the ocean_  
 _Safe within his keep_

_I'm shipping out to R'lyeh …_  
 _Shipping out to R'lyeh …_  
 _Shipping out to R'lyeh …_  
 _Shipping out to R'lyeh_

_Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!_

“What in hell does that mean?” demanded Carlos. He turned all the way around, but his mysterious dance partner had disappeared. And then the men began to stomp on the deck. Carlos covered his ears. The pounding was intense. 

 

Carlos was startled awake by a rapping at his door. “Wha-a” he muttered, half-falling out of the hammock. He shook his head, disoriented. The ship. He was on the ship. The pirates! He assumed there had been more casualties.

Christian poked his ruddy face in the door. “The cap'n wants you.” 

Carlos shrugged and splashed water on his face at the washbasin. He frowned at his reflection in the glass, hair sticking everywhere. He climbed the narrow stairs up towards the deck. He blinked in the starlight. There was a full moon tonight, so he could see off the stern that they had already set up a tow of the captured pirate ship, the Alert. He opened the door and entered the captain's mess, where gathered the Captain, the first mate, and another man he didn't recognize, though he looked to be a sailor.

“Carlos, glad you're here,” said the Captain. 

“The doctor looks knackered,” grunted the mate as Carlos rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 

“He's fine, just been stabbing pirates.”

“I didn't stab him, exactly,” Carlos demurred. “I simply tossed a surgical knife in his direction when he unkindly intruded on my surgical theater.”

“Remind me not to entreat your ire, Carlos,” smiled the Captain. He indicated the stranger. “Now, didn't you tell me you picked up a fair bit of Swedish in your travels?”

“I can manage,” said Carlos modestly. “In addition, I have corresponded with a professor of herpetology at _Uppsala Universitet.”_

“Well, here is the situation. The pirates were keeping a couple of prisoners from their last raid. One of them is a Mr. Thurston, who, as far as we can make out, is from Boston. The other is Mr. Johansen here, who is of Norwegian origin.” The man perked up, obviously recognizing his name. “And we're trying to work out what has happened.”

“Can't you inquire of Mr. Thurston?”

“Mad as a March Hare,” drawled the mate, circling his index finger around his temple. 

“But he's been saying something about an island, and it's not one on our charts. Since that's our primary mission out here when we're not tangling with brigands, we wanted to look into it. But we haven't been able to communicate much with Mr. Johansen.”

 _“You are from Norway, sir?”_ Carlos asked in his best Swedish. He winced at the forced sound of his own accent.

“Oslo!” Johansen answered. _“Although my ship originated in Valparaiso,”_ he continued in his native Norwegian. Carlos breathed a sigh of relief that he could follow.

“He sailed out of Chile,” Carlos told the others.

 _“We had taken on Mr. Thurston in a charter_ ,” Johansen continued. _“He told a mad tale about an unknown island. He had some papers that backed it up, but I don't know. I can't read Latin, so I'll leave that to someone else.”_

“You said he seemed mad?” asked the captain after Carlos had translated.

_“He claimed the island only appears when the stars are in alignment.”_

Carlos raised an eyebrow, but repeated the claim. 

“Isn't that the mad geological theory you've been telling me?” asked the captain.

“Island chains may rise and fall. This is Mr. Lyell's theory. But ... the time course is many eons. Islands do not just pop up at will.” Carlos turned again to Johansen. “ _Did you make it to the island?”_

Johansen became a bit agitated at that, and it took a few attempts for Carlos to get the story out of him. Evidently, Thurston, who was not overwhelmingly well-balanced to begin with, became more and more agitated and out of sorts the closer they came to the coordinates where, he claimed, lay the island. And then of course the ship had run into pirates and, having no guns of their own, ended up slaughtered. 

But for some reason when it came to Thurston, the pirates stilled their hands. Taking him and his papers along with Johansen as hostages, they had set Johansen's disabled ship adrift with what crew remained. It appeared to him that they had set a course towards those coordinates when they had been intercepted by the _Vigilant._

The first mate was the one who asked the obvious question. “What's the bloody attraction of this damnable island? What treasure lies there?”

Carlos once again addressed Johansen. The man, unfortunately, became yet more agitated, and Carlos had a great deal of trouble interpreting his words. He finally confessed to the captain and mate, “I'm sorry, but I'm not certain I'm understanding him correctly. He keeps saying something about Elder Gods, or Old Ones. Do you have any idea what that could be?”

The captain and mate shared a glance that Carlos could not interpret. The captain walked over to Johansen, extending a hand. “Thank you, Mr. Johansen.” The somewhat confused sailor shook it, and then the captain, grabbing Carlos by his arm, dragged him out of the room. “Mr. Thurston still has his papers. Can I trouble you, Doctor, to take a look at them? A good portion of them are transcribed in Latin, of course, but you being a scholar....”

“Yes, of course,” said Carlos, although he felt a headache coming on. He was still sleep-deprived, and did not relish diving into an assortment of probably old, hand-scribbled Latin documents, but the captain seemed in earnest. They would, no doubt, immediately make way to this mysterious island, whatever the consequences. The ship had been commissioned by Her Majesty's government to embark on a surveying expedition, and Carlos had never yet seen Captain Tom Cochrane shy from his duty.

Carlos nodded glumly and trudged back to his quarters, where were delivered almost immediately many sheaves of crinkled, dusty papers, to the extent that Carlos wondered at Mr. Thurston being allowed to transport them all on not one but two different ships: his chartered vessel, and then the pirate ship.

“And now we are the third vessel,” he sighed, picking up a paper at random. He sent a steward out for a pot of fresh coffee, and then got to reading.

 

It was many, many hours later before Carlos finally looked up from his research. The papers were the combined work of either towering genius or wretched folly, and Carlos, though his mind was muddled from exertion and lack of sleep, favored the latter. According to the materials from Mr. Thurston's collection, the earth, as Mr. Lyell and Mr. Darwin had proposed, was incredibly ancient. But unlike the positing of the geologist and the naturalist, it had been originally populated not by mere chance, but rather by a race of incredibly powerful beings – gods, really – great and terrible entities who after bringing life and building a lost civilization retired underneath the sea to sleep there until.... Well, it wasn't terribly clear what precisely they were hiding from, nor what they awaited. 

It all got to sound like something out of a penny dreadful. 

There was only one thing for it. 

Carlos rose and, on somewhat unsteady legs (the sea was rough in this vicinity, and the captain had ordered full speed ahead, which caused a great deal of rocking) emerged from his quarters and went to seek out the third mate, who was standing watch. 

He found him standing on deck along with a young sailor. They were standing side by side, the mate’s arm wrapped around the teenager’s waist. It wasn’t the first time Carlos had spotted the crew in such a compromising position, so he knew of the protocol. He loudly cleared his throat, giving the mate and the sailor time to disentangle themselves, and all three proceeded to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. Although Captain Cochrane tended to look the other way, the penalty for such shenanigans was severe. Though it was rare men could still be hanged for indecency.

Carlos marched up to the mate and informed him of his plans. He was then escorted by a sailor over to the spirits room, which now quartered their guest.

“Mr. Thurston?” said Carlos. The young sailor was still hovering at his elbow, looking nervous. For some reason, there were no lights on here. He couldn't see Thurston. There was a pile of blankets in a dark corner of the room, piled up like some rare bird had woven together a nest. “Mr. Thurston?” he repeated.

Then, suddenly, the nest was moving. Faster than Carlos could have imagined, it stood up and heaved forward. It was a man with a blanket wrapped around him like a cape, and he was waving a bottle of rum.

“Begone, savage Negro!” he raved. The sailor stepped in front of Carlos, and got beaned on the head for his trouble. Thurston raised his arm at Carlos, who sidestepped, grabbed Thurston by the wrist, and then turned him around, shoving him against the wall.

“Who brought this Negro here! Go away!” Thurston spat.

“I am a Scotsman!” Carlos hollered back. He pulled the bottle from the madman's grasp and tossed it away. “Gather your wits, Mr. Thurston, or I will call the Captain and have you restrained.” He gave Thurston a shove downwards, and, still wrapped up in his blanket, the man slid against the wall to sit on the bare wooden floor.

“Are you all right?” Carlos inquired of the sailor. 

The boy was still standing, though he was rubbing his head. “I’ll put that bottle up his arse. We shoulda tossed you over with the bodies, Thurston!”

“I believe I can handle this,” Carlos told him. “Come by my surgery later if your head still grieves you.”

“Ain’t nothing grieves me more than this one,” the young sailor growled, pointing a thumb at Thurston. And then he departed.

“I’ll not speak to you, black bastard!” Thurston muttered at Carlos, who, while keeping a careful watch on him, hunkered down to be at eye level. Before his stint at university, Carlos had spent a year as an apprentice doctor, and had passed some time in an asylum for the insane. The physicians there had noted that what appeared to be a new strain of syphilis was causing mental impairment to some poor souls, sometimes decades after their first infection. It could cause grandiose delusions in the afflicted.

“Mr. Thurston,” said Carlos, keeping his voice low and steady. “I am Dr. MacLachlan. I am a physician.” He decided to only use one, hopefully more comforting and familiar, surname.

Thurston cringed back, eyeing Carlos suspiciously. “You are a doctor of medicine?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Are you from the savage islands?”

Carlos restrained himself from heaving a sigh. As he resembled his mother, he had sometimes evoked similar reactions from people in his homeland, who really should have known better. “No. I am a British citizen. I was born in Scotland.” 

“You don’t look Scottish,” Thurston told him. 

As this was one of the first coherent comments he had evoked from the man, Carlos did not take offense. “Yes, I left my bagpipes at home, I am afraid. My mother is Catalan.”

“Race mixing!” said Thurston, his eyes gone wide.

“If you consider the Scots a particular race, I suppose you are right,” said Carlos. His knees were getting sore, so he carefully lowered himself down to sit cross-legged in front of Thurston, although he kept at attention. “Now, Mr. Thurston, is it possible that, as a young man, you suffered from any notable afflictions?”

“Afflictions?”

“Er, yes, such as, perhaps, the French Disease?”

Thurston seemed to rear up. “I am an honorable man! I do not engage in your disreputable native orgies.”

“All right. All right.” Carlos decided on a different tack. Discussion of sexual matters was always dicey, even in the mentally stable. And he wasn’t likely to get anywhere with a detailed medical history at this point. At least the man was talking to him. “I have been looking through your papers.”

“My papers,” said Thurston, now peeping out of his blanket. “They took my papers.”

“We have them all. They are all safe, and in our care,” Carlos soothed. He reminded himself, keep your voice steady, and maintain eye contact. Though Thurston’s eyes seemed to be ever saccading left and right, which tended to confirm his preliminary diagnosis of neurosyphilis. 

Thurston jerked forward, causing Carlos to take in a breath. But the man made no hostile move. He only said, “Then you know. They will be after you now. As they are after me. They finished off my uncle. He was killed for what he knew. Slain in cold blood by a savage Negro!”

And there was the odd aversion again. “Was he in the islands when this happened?” Carlos prompted.

“No, Boston!”

“Well. All right then.” Carlos’s mind raced, and he tried to shake off his annoyance at Thurston, wondering honestly how much of his current psychomania was due to his mental illness. “Your papers,” he said carefully. “They make many references to the Great Old Ones. I’m not familiar-“

Thurston hurled himself forward. He clutched at Carlos’s arms, his face now inches from him. “They have awoken! The stars are in alignment. He will come. The Great Old One will come! _Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!”_

“What in hell does that mean?” groused Carlos, although the phrase sounded familiar. Something he had read? His head ached, and he wanted to curl up asleep in his hammock, away from all this nonsense about elder gods, and away from raving maniacs.

And then he heard it. They both heard the shout, from far above.

_“Land ho!”_

 

“The Galapagos were known to be disappearing islands. That's how I first heard about them,” the captain commented.

“Warn't nothing mystical about it,” grumbled the first mate. “They'd disappear in the fog.”

Carlos glanced over at the island they were currently sailing around, searching for a point to set anchor. So far, there did not appear to be a sheltering harbor, such as they had found back at the Galapagos. Rather, the island was rimmed by sheer cliffs and rocky beaches. Smack in the middle was giant conical mountain, which appeared to be a dormant volcano. This was no surprise: Carlos had long suspected many of the islands in this part of the world had their origin volcanism. 

But most intriguingly, someone or something had been to this place long before. Carlos had looked through the glass to assure himself of it. There were stone formations visible here and there around the perimeter, and they were most definitely not natural. Instead, they appeared to be archways, somewhat like the ancient formations Carlos had seen at Stonehenge. Into the stone had been carved queer hieroglyphic markings, but not in any language Carlos recognized.

He didn't feel good about this. He didn't feel good about any of this.

“You may have to take a longboat.”

Carlos whipped around to look at the Captain. This last had been addressed to him. “Excuse me?”

“You may have to take a rowboat to shore, Carlos. Doesn't look like we'll find a place to set anchor.”

Carlos looked back towards the island. “You'd like me to … go ashore?”

“Of course! In fact, I expected you'd be chomping at the bit. New worlds to explore. What's gotten into you?”

“Maybe the boy has eyes,” said the mate.

“Oh, not you too, Horace! Getting superstitious on me, are you?”

Carlos and the first mate exchanged a glance. “I apologize, Captain. I don't have a ready explanation for it. I am first off a man of science … but I get an uneasy feeling from these shores.”

“Pish-posh. You'll take a small crew and scout around. I'm counting on you! Oh, and take that great fool, Thurston, with you. The fresh air will do the scoundrel some good.”

This last did not make Carlos any more enthusiastic about the task at hand.

In the end, it was Carlos, about a dozen crew men, led by the third mate, and accompanied by Thurston and Johansen, the last survivors of the rig that had been heading for the island. Although, but Carlos's reckoning, most of the sailors appeared no more enthusiastic about the landing than he. 

The third mate, Bonden, was a steady young man, and before they got into the row boat, Carlos quietly took him aside and agreed on a brief surveying mission. The men were on edge, so Carlos thought it best to keep their time ashore to the minimum, to forestall any misfortune.

The men were uncharacteristically quiet as they stroked the longboat oars towards the rocky beach. Even the often frenetically animated Thurston kept his peace, though Carlos notice he kept his neck craned throughout the voyage, head bobbing left and right like some bizarre, oversized bird.

When the boat at last alit on the beach there was no sound but the lapping tide and the whistle of the wind around the odd stone formations. Bonden pointed upwards and, wordlessly, the crew fell in behind him, slowly scrambling up the sloping scree towards one of the looming stone monuments visible up ahead.

Carlos drew in a breath as they crested the hill, for visible around was not just one stone monument, but a veritable lost city. The remnants of stone structures lay everywhere, tangled in vines, some having been undermined by the invading jungle. 

It went on as far as the eye could see. The highest point was perhaps a dozen feet up off the ground.

There was no sound but the wind.

“We'll do this faster if we split into groups,” Bonden said. Carlos reluctantly agreed, and that was how he ended up walking the grounds with another crewman, the now silent Johansen, and Thurston, who had gotten a look to him that Carlos didn't much like.

After about half a mile of walking, they came to a sort of clearing. Carlos wondered if it had been meant as some kind of town square, as the ground showed the remnants of paving stones, but there did not seem to be any buildings. There was only one structure: something that resembled a large, heavy door inside its frame. The lintel was decorated with the hieroglyphics they had seen on other structures, but otherwise there was nothing nearby: no ruins, and nothing to suggest that this door had ever been part of a wall.

“Well, that's passing strange,” said Carlos. He walked all the way around the door, but there was no trace of any other structure. He also noticed something that had bothered him about other buildings there: the geometry just looked off somehow. From some angles the door appeared to be square against the forest floor, but from others, it appeared to be leaning, to as much as a 45 degree angle. 

The sailor shrugged and walked up, pulling on the handle. “I don't think that's a good idea,” Carlos ventured. But then to his surprise, and with a great squeaking of the hinges, the door suddenly popped open, sending the sailor off his balance. He fell back. Carlos and Johansen both gathered around, keeping their distance, but peering through the door. 

Carlos gasped again. It was the middle of the day, but inside the door, it was pitch dark.

“What the-” Carlos began. 

He was interrupted by an inhuman scream from Thurston. Hollering something indecipherable, the man suddenly rushed the door, and before Carlos or Johansen could move, leapt inside....

...and disappeared.

“Thurston!” Carlos shouted. He and Johansen looked desperately at one another, and then Carlos rushed towards the door. Grabbing the doorjamb, he leaned inside and called, “Thurston!'

But somehow he overbalanced. The door, which had been standing straight up just a moment ago, now seemed bent at a weird angle. Carlos grabbed desperately at the door frame, but lost his footing, and with a cry, fell down and down into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on Chapter 1: Francis Wayland Thurston and Gustaf Johansen are characters from Lovecraft's The Call of Cthulhu. Carlos’s experience aboard the Vigilant is the result of a veritable snack mix of influences. The first is the extraordinary real-life voyage of Charles Darwin aboard the HMS Beagle in the early 19th Century. Carlos's friendship with Capt. Cochrane is based on the Aubrey-Maturin novels, which were in turn based on the real life exploits of Captain Thomas Cochrane (born in 1775). Lastly, the song in Carlos's dream, in case you were wondering, is based on Shipping Up to Boston, which was written by Woody Guthrie so it's totally anachronistic, but I don't care. Happy New Year, everybody!


	2. Chapter 2

_Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1854_

 

Carlos tugged at his stiff collar and listened to the soft tinkling of glasses and silver as the servants set up in his family’s formal dining room. All things considered he would have rather been out on the estate this evening, hunting for beetles. 

He felt a small hand on his arm. He smiled as he turned around. His mother stood up on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. _The bonniest lassie in all of Iberia_ , his father called her, and she was still a striking woman, with strong cheekbones, wide, dark eyes, and black hair peppered with grey. Despite his relatively young age, Carlos’s own dark hair already carried a streak of grey, right at his hairline, just off center. Touched by the gods, his father swore. 

“I am so sorry about this, _miho_ ,” his mother whispered, her words softened by a mild Spanish accent.

“I can endure an evening of formal dress now and again,” Carlos chuckled. 

But his mother didn’t smile back. Instead, for a very brief instant, she frowned and looked her age. She patted Carlos on the shoulder, and then whisked off to direct the servants, leaving her older son standing alone to stew in confusion.

He didn’t remain alone for long. His father, Angus MacLachlan, seventeenth Baron of Strathlachlan, strode in. Although father and son shared little in the way of facial resemblance (Carlos took after his Continental side, the Baron was fond of saying), they were similar in height and bearing. His once reddish hair had gone iron grey, but his steely blue eyes were still sharp. 

His father was accompanied by three young ladies, who swirled and cooed around him like so many kittens tumbling after their mother.

“Carlos,” said the Baron, slightly rolling the R in his son’s name, “I suppose you’ll attend to these three wee lassies. These are Lord Hatrack’s daughters: Miss Patience, Miss Constance, and Miss Temperance.” As his father pronounced their names, the three girls stepped forwards one after another and bobbed into curtsies, like well-trained puppies. “May I present my firstborn son, Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan.” Carlos bowed formally, evoking some muffled giggles. Carlos tried not to roll his eyes.

“I’ll leave you in his care, lassies. I have some matters to attend to prior to dinner,” said the Baron, who, with an eye to Carlos, swept off. Carlos kept up his formal smile: this must have been what his mother was referring to in her apology. She knew how much he despised small talk.

“You’re so awfully tall, Mr. MacLachlan,” gushed one of the girls. Carlos surmised it was Patience. “Er, yes, thank you Miss Hatrack. It is said I take after my father in that regard.”

“Tall and dark,” remarked a second Hatrack. Constance? 

“Yes, I am said to resemble my mother in terms of complexion, Miss Hatrack,” Carlos answered, wondering if these individuals had ever happened to read a book, or indeed anything that involved using their powers of cognition. 

“Are you the _bug man_?” ventured a third Hatrack. Miss Temperance, who was making a rather regrettable face.

“I have an interest in the natural sciences,” said Carlos. “This often involves the collecting of specimens. My father’s estate is a good source for such things.” While he spoke, however, a thought nudged at the edge of his mind. _Miss Temperance Hatrack_. It seemed he had heard the name before, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Were you perhaps at the museum’s last natural sciences lecture, Miss Hatrack?” he asked.

“Me?” she gushed as her sisters laughed rather openly. “Oh, no. My father says the study of science is no place for a woman!”

“Well, that’s nonsense,” said Carlos, before he could stop himself. “I mean,” he retreated, viewing the scandalized looks on the girls’s faces, “we have many female attendees at our lectures, and there are women amongst the aficionados of collecting. Butterflies, for example.”

“All displayed on pins,” sniffed Miss Constance.

“Er, yes,” said Carlos.

“Not worth getting my gown muddy,” agreed Miss Patience.

“Indeed,” said Carlos, who couldn’t help but frown. Fortunately, at that moment, much to his relief, they were called to dinner. Miss Constance and Miss Patience linked arms and walked ahead, and Carlos offered an arm to Miss Temperance.

“If I may be so bold,” she offered, “you are quite different from your brother, Mr. MacLachlan.”

“Rafael?” asked Carlos. 

“Yes,” she cooed, her grip on his arm tightening. “Mr. Rafael MacLachlan.”

And quite suddenly the penny dropped. Miss Temperance Hatrack. Rafael referred to her as Tempy the Beanstalk, although not, Carlos hoped, in her presence. The implication was…. Well, it wouldn’t be mentioned in polite company. 

Carlos led her into the dining room, where she found her place beside him, her sisters arrayed across the table. Sitting beside Carlos were their parents, Lord and Lady Hatrack. The Lord, a large man with bushy mutton chop sideburns accentuating his prominent jowls, didn’t look terribly pleased. Carlos’s father entered, leading his mother by the arm, nearly glowing in her presence. With a kiss to her hand, he got her situated at one end of the table, and then proceeded down to the other end, near Lord Hatrack. 

Carlos beamed at his parents. He had always prayed for a bond in his own life as tender as the one he observed between his mother and father. It was clear to him his mother was not for his father just the loveliest girl in Barcelona, she was the only woman he had ever seen.

The rest of the parties seated themselves, Carlos noting with some curiosity that there were two places left unattended: one, he knew, was set for his brother Rafael, who made a habit of being late for occasions such as these. As for the other, Carlos had no idea, not unless the Hatracks thought to suddenly produce a Prudence, or perhaps a little Happenstance. He smiled at his own terrible joke as the servants began to fill their water glasses.

But then the dining room door flew open, and in burst the answer to his inquiry: Carlos’s younger brother, Rafael, in the company of a young woman. Carlos hadn’t seen her before, but that didn’t strike him as odd. He rarely saw Rafael in the company of the same young lady twice. What he did note was the reaction of a number of the Hatracks. Miss Temperance, to his left, audibly gasped, and her father, who had an unpleasant countenance, turned a beet red.

“You’re late, Rafael,” scolded his mother.

“My apologies, Mother,” said Rafael, as if he had committed no greater offense than bumping into someone on the sidewalk. “Mother, Father, Lord Hatrack, Lady Hatrack, Miss Hatrack, Miss Hatrack, and Miss Hatrack,” he nodded to the sisters in turn, although Miss Temperance Hatrack did not nod back, “may I present Miss Cruikshank?” The girl simpered and bowed, Lord Hatrack fumed, and Miss Temperance Hatrack, beside Carlos, reached over and intemperately gripped his arm. Carlos glanced at her in dismay, but was too polite to brush her off. Then, red-cheeked, Rafael and Miss Cruikshank took their seats. The servants bustled about, filling glasses with wine. Carlos noted that Miss Temperance, sitting beside him, went out of her way not to meet his brother's glance.

“Well, now that everyone is here and seated, we have a small announcement,” said Carlos’s father once the servants retreated. The same look of uneasiness that had crossed his mother’s face earlier now flitted over the Baron’s features. “I am pleased to let you know that Lord Hatrack has kindly consented to promise his wee lassie, Miss Temperance Hatrack, in marriage to our elder son.”

Carlos blinked, and Miss Temperance Hatrack’s hand tightened on his arm. Elder son? Wait, wasn’t that _him_? He flashed a look at his mother who, worryingly, did not meet his eye.

“Congratulations, brother,” chuckled Rafael. “Well done. And Miss Temperance, my best wishes.”

Miss Temperance’s hand was now a small vise gripping Carlos’s arm. “May I propose a toast, to the happy couple?” barked Lord Hatrack. 

Carlos raised his glass. And then he upended it.

The room swirled.

 

_An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856_

Carlos moaned. He blinked, trying to remember where he was. He wondered whether he had lost consciousness for a moment, as a consequence of the fall. 

He was lying, dazed, on a carpet of soft, springy moss. Sitting up, he checked himself for signs of injury, and then rose, somewhat shakily, to his feet.

Carlos looked around. He was now inside some vast underground chamber. He raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling directly above. Oddly enough, he couldn't see the door he had fallen through. Was it closed off now? “Johansen!” he called up. But there was no reply, and no movement nor any sound he could sense. “Johansen! Bonden? Anybody!”

He heard something then: the sound of running feet. He glanced around, but saw no one.

“Thurston?” hollered Carlos. “Thurston!” But there was no response, nothing but the dull echo of his voice.

“Thurston!” he shouted, his voice cracking. He sat down on a boulder, and put his head in his hands. _Think_ , he told himself. _Keep your head_. After a moment, it occurred to him that it was weird, if he was indeed inside a sealed cave, that it was still light enough to see. Was there an opening that had escaped his notice? He looked around for a means of escape, and was surprised at what he saw: up on the rock wall, there was a small, round light source. But the closer he looked, despite his agitation, the more curious he became. It appeared to be made of glass, but there was no flame visible, only a glowing filament in the middle. It was passing curios.

The light was connected to a string of wire which stretched along the wall of the cave. Carlos followed it for a bit, thinking there might be someone at the source who could help him. He walked along a passageway for a while, occasionally shouting, “Thurston,” though he heard no more running footsteps. There were however more lights along the way, all connected to the long wire. “Thurston!” he shouted. The cave echoed.

“Thurston!” came a response.

Carlos froze. “Hello?” he ventured.

“Thurston!” the voice came again. And then the speaker was upon him: a most unusual-looking person. He was around medium height, and quite slim. His skin was dark, about the same hue as the Pacific islanders Carlos had met, but his eyes were a pale blue, which was rare in these parts. And although he appeared fairly young, his hair was pure silver.

It somehow reminded Carlos of the moonlight.

He was oddly clothed, wearing a colorful silk tunic over trousers that appeared to be constructed of some kind of animal pelt.

“Thurston,” said the man, giving a graceful bow.

“I'm sorry,” said Carlos. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Thurston?”

The man sprung back up. “ _Mr_. Thurston? Sorry, don't know him. But I heard you calling, and took 'Thurston' to be a greeting of your people.”

Carlos stared for a while. He rubbed his head, wondering if he had sustained some kind of injury. This was definitely an odd conversation. “Er, no, actually, we say, 'Good day.'”

“Good day then,” said the man, giving the same bow. He had a quite lovely, sonorous voice, which gained resonance in the echoing cave.

“Good day,” said Carlos. He decided perhaps introductions were in order. “I am Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan. I am a naturalist aboard the HMS _Vigilant_.”

“Oh, how very elaborate, Carlos the Naturalist of the HMS _Vigilant_.” The man pointed to himself. “I am Cecil. Just Cecil. And are you presently seeking Mr. Thurston?”

“In fact, I must needs return to my ship. I was pursuing Mr. Thurston. He jumped through a door.” Carlos pointed upwards, feeling a bit ridiculous. 

“Oh! You opened one of the interdimensional portals?”

“I suppose so. Yes. Though it looked like a door. An oddly-shaped door. And Mr. Thurston bolted through in a state of agitation.”

“And you jumped in after him? That was rather impetuous!” said Cecil, who was peering intently at Carlos.

Carlos scratched the back of his neck. “Actually, I _fell_ through.”

Cecil nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. Easy to do. Non-Euclidean geometry, you know. That's the way the Old Ones sometimes built things. Didn't have a level, I guess.”

“Er, I guess not? So, you know about the Great Old Ones?”

“Yes, of course, they left their graffiti everywhere, didn't they?” asked Cecil, pointing to a nearby outcropping which had the strange hieroglyphic splayed over it. 

“You can read it?”

“Yes, but why bother? _All hail the mighty Old Ones_ ,” Cecil muttered in a mock-pretentious voice. “When they can't even build an efficient interdimensional gateway. I mean, I suppose you don't have time paradoxes where you come from!” Carlos shook his head. “We're perpetually getting tomorrow and yesterday mixed up. It causes no end of problems!”

“I can imagine,” said Carlos

“Those gates are another thing! They tend to open and close in their own good time. Old Ones were pillocks at engineering. We might ask Josie back in town about it: sometimes her angels know these things. In fact,” said Cecil, his eyes widening, “why don't you come back to town with me? It's nearly dinner time. We could get something to eat, and see if anybody's has seen your Mr. Thurston.”

“But.... There is a town down here?” Carlos couldn't help but be intrigued. And he had to admit, he was feeling a bit peckish. 

Carlos allowed Cecil to lead him down through a series winding tunnels. Carlos had been disoriented by the fall, but assumed that they were walking further into the interior of the island. 

“So how did you come to our island, Carlos?” Cecil asked. “You don't mind if I call you Carlos, do you?”

“No,” said Carlos. It was a bit informal, but these were strange circumstances, and Cecil didn't appear to have a surname. “You may call me by my Christian name, although I am unused to hearing it.”

“Why is that? It is a lovely name. Why, almost as lovely as your dark, soulful eyes.”

“Um, indeed?”

“Carlos. Is it not a variant of St. Charles? And it sounds as soft as you delicate skin.”

“Uh....”

“Not that I've had the favor of touching it. But I am quite close enough to judge, I feel.”

“Er....”

“Not that I want to be too forward. I'm not being too forward, am I? Josie says I'm sometimes too forward.”

“Well...”

“But you never answered me!”

“Um, answered you what?” asked Carlos, his cheeks now burning hot. 

“Why, what you have granted our humble community with the great favor of your presence?”

“Oh!” Carlos huffed a sigh of relief, hoping to guide the conversation into less treacherous waters. “I am a naturalist....”

“But you're wearing clothes!”

Well that hadn't worked at all. “Excuse me?” Carlos ventured.

“But I suppose you are naked underneath. As we all are. Well, except for that man who loiters at the post office.” Cecil narrowed his eyes.

“Cecil,” said Carlos, trying to clear up the misunderstanding, “I don't know what you mean, but I am a scientist.”

“Oh, that's lovely! But haven't we all been scientists at one time or another?”

“Er. Maybe. That is to say, I came here aboard the HMS _Vigilant_. We are in service to Her Majesty's government, charting the waters. And I have taken it upon myself to supply a list of the local wildlife, after the manner of Mr. Darwin.”

“Mr. Darwin? Is that your beau?”

“What? I should say not.”

“Good,” said Cecil, who was looking a little smug.

“I don't have a beau,” said Carlos.

“Even better!”

Carlos was about to explain the situation with his fiancée (not that it was any of Cecil's business: the man was a bit nosy) but then he heard a great clanking and clattering coming from the trail up ahead. He ground to a halt, astounded at the sight before him.

Coming towards them, clinking and clanking and stomping along, was a large man – but he seemed to be entirely encased in metal. Carlos at first took him for a knight in armor, as he had seen sets of medieval armor before. But something about this looked off. It wasn't shaped right somehow: it was of a form more like a mechanical toy than a man.

The prodigious contraption came to a halt in front of them, pausing to exhale a blast of steam from a pipe trailing out of the top of his head.

“Hello, Babbage,” sighed Cecil.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Carlos, who couldn't believe his eyes. “Cecil, is this a mechanical man?”

Cecil nodded. “Yes, this is my bodyguard, Babbage.”

The mechanical man came to attention, and executed a swift, somewhat clumsy bow. “I'm not entirely sure his name is Babbage,” Cecil whispered to Carlos. “They don't generally give the sentinels names. But he looks like a Babbage, don't you think?”

Carlos didn't really know how to reply. “Um. Good day, Mr. Babbage,” was all he could come up with. The mechanical man squeaked and creaked, and executed another bow for Carlos, flourished but another exhalation of steam. “I suppose he likes the appellation,” he surmised.

“Well, I suppose we better get a move on, if they've sent Babbage after me,” said Cecil. Babbage executed a turn and began to perambulate down the path. Cecil and Carlos followed him.

Carlos was just beginning to wonder why Cecil would need a bodyguard – especially something so prodigious – when all at once they rounded the bend and came upon an astonishing sight. The narrow tunnel opened up once again, and they could survey an entire town constructed within the hollow crater of the volcano. 

“Welcome to Nightlantis!” said Cecil.

“This is remarkable!” said Carlos, staring in wonder. There were stone edifices of such weird geometry as he had seen up on the island, but here everything was in good repair, and had been freshly whitewashed. There were many tall buildings and graceful spires. He stared upwards in wonder: there was light overhead, but it was all artificial. Looking up, you could see the vaulted ceiling many meters high, formed, he guessed, of the interior of the island’s central mountain. No sky – neither stars nor clouds nor sun – was visible from within. The settlement was entirely isolated from the outside world. 

Cecil hummed with obvious pride. “Well, it's just our modest little town. But we like it!”

“Prince Cecil!” There was now a small group of townsfolk heading their way, great looks of concern on their faces.

“ _Prince_ Cecil?” whispered Carlos.

Cecil’s dark cheeks turned a little pink. “Well … yes.”

“I thought you told me you were _just Cecil_.”

“Well, I am! To you! I mean, I'm _their_ prince, but not _your_ prince. Anyway, the whole thing is tiresome.” He turned to greet the townsfolk. “Hello, my listeners!”

“Cecil, we were very concerned!” said an officious-looking woman. “We sent Babbage off to find you!”

“I just went for a stroll in the caverns, Miss Hidge,” said Cecil. 

“Cecil, you know you're not supposed to do that! And all alone?” she tutted.

“But I found this beautiful man there!” said Cecil, pulling Carlos over closer. “He's Carlos the Naturalist of the _Vigilant_!”

“Um, hello,” said Carlos. He couldn’t recall ever being referred to in such gushing tones before, not even by any of his female admirers.

As her aides murmured in appreciation, Miss Hidge tutted. “Well, I suppose his hair is perfect. And his skin is perfect. And his teeth are perfect,” she said, waving a hand. “But beautiful?”

“He's fairly beautiful,” said one of the fellows accompanying her.

“Oh, yes indeed! I am simultaneously awed and terrified by his hair,” commented the other.

Carlos self-consciously touched his hair, thinking he had not even bothered to comb it since he had plunged into the pool the other day.

“We ought invite him to the wedding!” said Cecil.

“Er, what wedding?” asked Carlos.

“That's a little forward, don't you think, Prince Cecil?” muttered Miss Hidge. 

“Why don't we ask Mayor Winchell about it?”

Miss Hidge drew up to her full height, which was not terribly impressive. “We can't ask Mayor Winchell at the present moment.”

“And why not?”

“Because she has disappeared. Which is completely within her rights as mayor,” Miss Hidge added, glaring directly at Carlos.

“Uh, yes?” said Carlos, looking at Cecil.

“Why, I could disappear right now, if I really wanted to!” Miss Hidge insisted. “As her assistant, I can disappear as well. Allow me to demonstrate!”

“Er, I'm sure you could,” allowed Carlos.

“Then it's a plan!” Cecil told a dubious-looking Miss Hidge. “Come along, Carlos!” So, with Babbage stomping after them, Cecil led Carlos into the city. Behind them, while her aides watched her, Miss Hidge appeared to be straining with great effort. 

“You'll enjoy this,” Cecil told Carlos.

There was a distinct “Pop!” sound behind them. Carlos turned around to see Miss Hidge was there no more, but there appeared to be a small, mustard-colored stain where she had been standing. “Do you smell olives?” asked Carlos.

“Come along, we don't want to be late. I'm in enough trouble as it is,” sighed Cecil. The town was truly lovely, although Carlos reckoned you could experience feelings of claustrophobia given the lack of visible sky. 

“Will we see Josie, the person you mentioned?”

“She’ll be at the dinner later. We’ll see her after I make my transmission.”

“Transmission?”

“Yes, I’m supposed to be on the air now.”

Cecil didn’t explain any further. Carlos had expected Cecil to lead him to the center of town, towards a graceful building with tall spires that looked something like a palace. Well, given that he was “Prince Cecil.” But instead they began heading down dark staircases, as if they were heading to some underground carriageway, such as they had proposed to build in London. They threaded through through some hatches, and then descended a ladder or two. 

They had bade Babbage farewell back up at the top: Cecil explained that the mechanical man would take something he called an “elevator,” which was evidently a steam-powered room which traveled upwards and downwards. Babbage had appeared annoyed at this eventuality, as he emitted a couple of harsh steam puffs, and then trudged off.

They walked through some remarkable sights. Some floors were completely crammed with noisy, clainking machinery, and with men crawling among it, shouting at each other. Other floors appeared to be completely deserted, the abandoned rune-carved structures standing silent as to their function.

“So what should I call you, um, Your Majesty?” Carlos asked as they scrambled down a ladder of metal rungs.

“Cecil, of course. That's my name!” Cecil called up.

“But, you're a prince,” said Carlos, leaping down to the floor.

“Oh, please.” Cecil waved his hand. “Everyone down on the lower levels calls me Cecil. It's only the stuffy people up above to stand on ceremony.” 

“These are the lower levels? How many are there?”

“A lot!” They had finally arrived on a level that was a series of storefronts. Cecil hailed the shop owners, all of whom appeared to know him, as they walked along the underground avenue. As he had claimed, they all called him by his Christian name.

“Exactly how big is this Nightlantis?” Carlos asked as they walked down the broad, underground avenue.

“Nobody rightly knows. There’s definitely more underground than there is up top. Like I said, the Old Ones were a bit rubbish as engineers, so there's plenty of stairways that go nowhere and hatches that open in to blank walls and hallways that loop back on themselves somehow. The geometry gets odder, the deeper you go.”

“My goodness!”

“The lowest levels are also beastly hot, so nobody has followed them all the way down. That's where Cthulhu lies dreaming.”

“What?” asked Carlos. Something seemed familiar.

 _“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!_ As they say,” said Cecil. “That's the old name for this city, R'lyeh. But it's a ridiculous name, I think. No one can pronounce it!” 

Carlos nodded. He noticed a group of children had been pursuing them. They held themselves back, but (as Carlos was used to tracking wildlife through thick forests) he sensed them lurking, just out of reach. They were not at all the boisterous youths he was accustomed to, but rather silent and watchful. 

“Ah, here we are,” said Cecil.

Carlos looked back, but the children had all slipped away. Cecil entered a storefront labeled “Nightlantis Civic Wireless Telegraphy.” Carlos stared at the sign for a moment. He seemed to recall the term “Wireless Telegraphy” in the works of Mr. Tesla, but couldn't quite place it.

He spotted Babbage tromping down the street and, with a bow to him, followed Cecil inside. He was astonished at what he found. For one, thing, somehow, the interior looked bigger than it had appeared from the street. Just to be sure, Carlos stepped back out the door, and then back inside several times.

“You'll let in flies, doing that,” Cecil scolded him.

“My apologies,” muttered Carlos, looking around at the large, high-ceilinged interior. “But I happened to notice-”

“Yes, it's bigger in here.”

“Well, it appears bigger.”

“No, it's actually bigger. The non-Euclidean geometry again. We have an infinite event horizon, something like that. Anyway, it's time I begin my transmission.”

“I'm sorry, your what?”

Cecil sat down at a wooden desk that was festooned with many dials and the strange, flameless light fixtures he had now seen everywhere in Nightlantis. There was an apparatus on top of the desk that looked like a metal cone. Cecil wound up a crank on the side of the desk, the dials flipped and the lights blinked on and off. He picked up a stack of papers on his desk, leaned forward and spoke into the cone. 

_“Is today the tomorrow you thought about yesterday? Please try to keep track, time is weird. Welcome to Nightlantis.”_

Carlos stared around him in wonder. It seemed he heard Cecil's voice outside, echoing all around the area. Despite Cecil's annoyance, he went back to the door and poked his head outside.

_“The Sheriff's Secret Police have requested that citizens refrain from illegal activities during the night time. It makes it harder to get daguerreotypes from the many hidden cameras, a spokesman explained. When you are committing crimes, you are urged to stand still, so the images do not turn out blurred.”_

Cecil's voice was everywhere, though it had picked up a strange, tinny quality. Carlos noticed that the citizens who had been walking through the area now all stopped to listen. 

Carlos stole back inside. It was marvelous, like a type of talking telegraph, he guessed. Another thing he would have to ask Cecil about, he supposed. He needed to get back to the _Vigilant_ , but this place was so intriguing, he felt obligated to stay a while and learn about it.

“There's a new person in town, and he is perfect and beautiful. His name is Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan, and he is a naturalist from Her Majesty's Ship, the _Vigilant_.”

Carlos went quiet. He hadn't realized Cecil had caught his full name. Clearly, he had been paying more attention than Carlos realized. 

“Tell me, Carlos, what do you think of Nightlantis so far?” Cecil pushed the cone over towards him with an elegant hand. The fingers were long and graceful, and Carlos stared at them for probably a bit longer than he should have.

“Er,” he stumbled. Cecil pressed the speaking cone a little bit nearer. “I find it very interesting here,” said Carlos, marveling as his voice echoed outside. 

Cecil pulled the cone closer to himself. He leaned over further, his face very close to Carlos. “What do you find so interesting?” he asked. He pressed the cone back towards Carlos.

“Well, for example, I find your lighting system extraordinary. And I am very impressed with your servant, Mr. Babbage.”

Babbage, who had been silently standing watch nearby up until now, tooted out a blast of steam evidently in approval. Carlos smiled.

Cecil's face was awfully close to his now, Carlos noticed. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright.

“Er, I also think your city is very beautiful,” said Carlos, not certain why he had voiced a rather mundane thought. But this caused Cecil's smile to broaden, and his eyes to dance, and Carlos decided right then and there it had been an utterly perfect thing to say. “Um, especially the upper levels. I mean, the view.”

“The view here is very lovely as well,” said Cecil. Carlos suddenly dropped his eyes and found himself blushing. Why had he gotten shy? It was weird, but perhaps it was the disorientation. “Thank you, Dr. Gutierrez MacLachlan.”

Carlos sat back and tried to straighten up, clearing his throat.

Cecil edged away, grabbing a sheet of paper. “Listeners, as you know, I don't like to make this transmission all about me. I am but your humble narrator, chosen for this purpose. But I need your help. As you know, Mr. Marcus Vansten is one of our candidates. I have just received the following notice from him, or rather, from someone he hired to pass on a notice. The notice reads, 'I am Mr. Marcus Vansten. I am rich. I am the richest man you could ever imagine. In fact, I am so rich, you can probably not even imagine it. It's all right. Your imagination is probably anemic because you are so poor. But everybody is poor compared to me. Mr. Marcus Vansten: richer than you.' Well, what do you think of that, Nightlantis?”

“He sounds horrid,” blurted Carlos. “Er,” he muttered, hoping that his face wasn't close enough to the cone to be transmitted. Cecil grinned at him. 

 

Sometime later, Cecil hurried Carlos out of the Wireless station as Babbage tromped along behind them. As they passed the shops, several citizens called out, “Hullo!” to Cecil along the way. 

“We think _Carlos_ is a good candidate!” announced a mustachioed man standing by a barber pole.

“Well, he's not really a candidate, Telly,” said Cecil.

“I'm voting for Carlos,” said a man wearing something that looked like a monk's cowl. He was accompanied by a similarly attired man, out walking their dogs. They both had their hoods pulled up, so it was difficult to make out their faces.

“Thank you, Hitoshi, Xavier,” said Cecil, tugging on Carlos's arm. “But Carlos is not-”

“Cecil, forget about Marcus. We want Carlos!” said a dark-haired girl, who was standing in the middle of a group of young people.

“Thanks, Dana. We appreciate that.”

“I'm sorry, Cecil,” said Carlos as he was escorted away. “To what are they referring when they mention candidates?”

“Well, my wedding of course.”

“You're- You're getting married?” For some reason, Carlos felt disappointed at the news. He wasn't entirely certain why. Cecil seemed a good fellow, and he should be glad for his good fortune. “I'm sorry, I mean, of course, my best wishes.”

Cecil looked glum, and patted Carlos's arm. “You are a good friend to say so. I am fated to be wed this year, as the stars are in alignment, and there are currently three candidates who are seeking my hand.”

“Er, forgive me if I am being forward,” said Carlos, “but isn't Marcus Vansten … male?”

“Yes, of course. All three candidates are male. You see, the town set this up long ago. They were expecting a girl – all the signs and portents pointed to it! I was intended to be Cecilia. So I came along as a bit of a shock to the system. But everyone has been so terribly understanding about it all.”

“Well, that was … agreeable of them.” Cecil kept a loose, companionable grip on Carlos's arm. Maybe, Carlos thought, marriage in this culture was different from what it was back home? He thought back to what the captain had told him: when you arrive at a place with different customs, try to learn a little about them before you pass judgment. That seemed reasonable, right?

“But we're headed to dinner now, and you'll get to meet them all!”

“This is your engagement dinner?”

Cecil laughed. “Not precisely, as I don't know who I'll be marrying yet.”

Both Carlos and Cecil turned at a soft sound behind them. The quiet group of the children Carlos had noted before were standing there, though they remained silent and still. One of them, a stocky, dark-skinned girl, stood a little ahead of them, a red-haired boy at her side. Carlos turned to approach them, but felt Cecil's hand on his arm. 

“Careful,” Cecil whispered.

Carlos nodded but then slowly, as if he were approaching some new wildlife, moved forward a few steps. He crouched down, so he was at eye level with the dark girl. He noticed she was clutching something: a book. He peered at it, recognizing the cover. “Is that by chance a novel by Mr. Dickens?” he asked softly.

Carefully, as if revealing a great treasure, she held out the book so he could see the cover. “ _Oliver Twist: the Parish Boys' Progress_ ,” read Carlos. “That is one of my favorites.”

She looked him up and down, and then glanced at the red-haired boy standing beside her. He was wearing a sash with some badges clumsily sewn into it. He nodded. She glanced again at Carlos, and then quickly, quietly, all the children scattered again.

Carlos remained squatting down for a moment. He got up. “Who are they?” he asked Cecil.

Cecil shook his head. “Miss Tamika Flynn – she's the leader – is a survivor of the summer reading program. Master Barton Donovan is her friend: he was one of the Eternal Scouts. I'm not sure about all of the rest of them. They mostly inhabit the lower floors, down where none of us dare go.”

Carlos nodded, wondering if the group of ragamuffins had happened onto a Fagin of their own. He and Cecil came to a pair of sliding doors. Cecil didn't move to open them, and neither did Babbage. But then, to Carlos's astonishment, they whisked noiselessly open on their own, to reveal a small chamber. Carlos followed Cecil inside, and Babbage clanked after them, the floor sagging slightly under his weight. Cecil pushed a lever to one side of the doors, and they slid closed. Then he turned a crank, and Carlos felt the floor lurch beneath him. 

“It's the elevator,” Cecil explained. The floor settled, and he pressed the lever again. This time, the door opened to reveal they were now back at the top level of Nightlantis. 

“This is extraordinary!” exclaimed Carlos, leaping outside, hoping to get a glimpse of the mechanism. But to his disappointment, it was all concealed inside of the structure. 

“If you'd like, I think we can show you later, but right now we're late for dinner, and we don't want Miss Hidge – well, what's left of her – to get cross. She'll go tattle to the mayor, and then I'll have no end of worries.”

“So that's why you have Mr. Babbage following you?” asked Carlos. “They want to keep track of you?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I've heard stories, our own young Queen, Her Majesty Victoria, had an escort during the regency of her uncle, before she ascended the throne. She couldn't even descend a staircase without someone holding her hand!”

“Really?” asked Cecil. And then, more softly, “Did she appreciate it?”

Carlos leaned over to whisper to Cecil. “The rumor is, she detested it,” he confided.

Cecil smiled at the confidence, and Carlos felt his heart flutter.

“Well, here we are,” Cecil announced. They had come upon one of the grander buildings in Nightlantis, although not the one Carlos had taken for the palace. He still needed to ask Cecil about that one, and he start to wonder whether he could convince the prince to take him on an after-dinner tour of the city. But then Babbage opened up a great double door, and, on Cecil's urging, Carlos walked inside.

He froze as the great beast standing inside reared up, roared and spat fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of Tesla was the chapter's biggest anachronism, as Nikola Tesla wasn't born until 1856. By the way, Carlos's surname, MacLachlan, is a tribute to Kyle MacLachlan, who played Agent Cooper on Twin Peaks. And Charles Babbage was the engineer who came up with the concept of the computer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am publishing this chapter a bit earlier than I had planned, in case any of y'all are trapped at home due to the Polar Vortex. Stay warm, guys!
> 
> And since people always ask: yes, this work is complete, I just need time to edit the last chapters.

_Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1854_

Carlos sat in his father's study, staring out the window. His father sat behind his desk; his mother, in a chair beside Carlos. 

He wasn't listening to either of them.

“I'm sorry about this, lad,” his father was saying. “If there were any other way....” He trailed off. 

Carlos sat, still as a stone. A couple of his father's old hunting dogs had padded into the room to keep their masters under observation. One, lying curled up next to Carlos, perhaps sensing his agitation, pushed his grey muzzle into Carlos's hand. Carlos smiled slightly and scratched him behind the ears. 

His mother reached over and touched his arm. “Your brother made some foolish promises to Miss Temperance,” she said, quietly. 

“Rafael has been known to do that,” Carlos said bitterly.

“He left a trail of broken hearts from here to London,” stormed the Baron. “But he tangled with the wrong family this time. Lord Hatrack: he's got control of some debts.”

“We are indebted?” asked Carlos. He wondered why he hadn’t heard this information prior to this.

Angus chortled, though it sounded bitter. “Not us, lad. Your uncle.”

“Uncle Malcolm?” asked Carlos. Ah, that made sense. His father's younger brother had been, as far as Carlos believed the family stories, a bit like his own brother many years ago. Aside from the ladies, gambling was another of his vices, and that was the one that had tripped him up: he had long since run through his inheritance, and only kept on his feet through the Baron of Strathlachlan's generosity. 

“So, I am doubly _screwed_ ,” said Carlos.

His mother gasped, but Angus only shook his head. He pulled out three glasses and filled them with a rich amber liquid from the crystal decanter on his desk. He pushed two glasses towards Carlos and his mother. Carlos took up the glass and upended it.

“Now, lad, that's sipping liquor!” scolded the Baron. 

Carlos slid the glass back on the desk, and the Baron refilled it. “Show a bit of proper respect this time,” his father warned him. 

Carlos didn't reply. The family crest was up above his father's desk. A ship at sea. The St. George Cross. A dragon, its tongue licking fire.

Carlos's mother left her glass untouched on the edge of the desk. “Understand, Miss Temperance is a fine young lady.”

“She knows her duty,” agreed the Baron.

“She will agree to a loveless marriage in order to keep up appearances,” Carlos spat.

“You may come to … _appreciate_ her more,” said his mother.

“Carlos,” said his father. “We know you're a special lad. I've always said that. I couldn't be prouder to know that you'll be head of this family after me, that you'll continue my line.”

Carlos glared at them. “I'm _not_ special,” he declared. “I only ever wanted one thing: what you have, with each other. But now you've denied it to me.” He rose.

“Carlos!” warned his father.

“I need to stretch my legs,” said Carlos stalking from the room. The dogs padded after him. He made his way to the back door, mindful of running into their guests, and let himself out, no clear destination in mind. The sky was dark, which matched his mood. He strode out towards the moors, his mind racing. There was silence for a while, the only sound Carlos's angry, beating heart.

“You intend to walk all the way to Edinburgh?” came a voice.

“And to London beyond,” snapped Carlos, turning on his brother. “How the hell did you find me?”

Rafael grinned. As was often remarked, he very much resembled his older brother, although he was not quite as tall, not quite as dark, and definitely not as possessed of an analytical mind. He was, in many ways, a somewhat paler copy of his sibling. “You always end up out here when you're agitated.”

“Rafael, what have you done?”

Rafael hopped up to sit on the stone fence that bordered their path. “It wasn't my fault! How was I to know Uncle Malcolm was at it again? He was always a great tit.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn't grab one of father's hunting rifles and shoot you!”

“You should thank me.”

“What?” Right now, Carlos badly needed to strangle someone, and Rafael was seeming a better and better candidate with each moment. 

“Brother dear, in the two decades of our acquaintanceship, you have never shown the slightest interest in any person of the female gender. How is it you intend to carry on the family name without a suitable mate?”

Carlos found he couldn't look at his brother. He dropped his eyes, making a great fuss about patting a dog. “You've more than made up for my supposed lack of interest,” he muttered.

Rafael hummed, knowing he'd struck a nerve. “So, you see? I've hooked you a very decent fish.”

“She's not a fish!”

“But from a good family. She's not bad to look at. And agreeable. A little light on brains...”

“Rafael, she can't even carry on a proper conversation.”

Rafael looked baffled. “You really expect to be speaking to your wife?”

Carlos seethed. “Yes! I expect my life's companion will be able to converse!”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “You're being unreasonable again, don't you think?”

Carlos, not for the first time, imagined his hands tightening around his brother's throat. And then, abruptly, he sighed and leaned back against the fence next to his brother. 

“Carlos,” said Rafael. “Dear brother. It's fate. And you can't resist fate. You're going to stay here, take a proper wife and have many howling children, and grow fat and content. And one day, you'll take on the Barony. It's what you were born for. It's what you were _made_ for.”

Carlos wanted to argue, but he hadn't the words. He gazed out over his father's estate, his estate, a sinking feeling in his heart.

 

_An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856_

Carlos stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the incredible five-headed dragon that towered above him. The dragon was an element on his own family crest, but he had never in his entire life expected to actually encounter one. The entire room reeked of brimstone.

“I will burn you to ashes!” warned the green head as the monster reared up, spreading its leathery wings, and spitting fire. 

“That's-” sputtered Carlos. He drew himself to his full height. “That is not polite.”

“Feel the beating of my wings, as I slay you, foolish mort-”

Suddenly, the dragon slapped its own face. “Now, you cut that out, green head,” warned the central, blue head. As the green head moped, the blue head turned to Carlos, extending a scaly clawed hand. “Hiram McDaniels, candidate for the hand of fair Prince Cecil,” he said.

“Uh,” said Carlos. He glanced over at Cecil, who nodded encouragement. Carlos shook hands with Hiram.

“May I present Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan,” said Cecil. 

“You gone and brang a doctor, Prince Cecil?” said the blue head. “I hope you ain't ill?”

“No, I am fine. Dr. MacLachlan is staying here for a time, so I thought I would show him around our quaint little town. You'll be at dinner, I suppose?” he said, leading Carlos off.

“I'll be there!” said the blue head cheerily.

 _“The world will end in fire,”_ whispered the purple head.

“Uh, Cecil,” said Carlos as they walked along the bright, high-ceilinged corridor. “You do realize that Hiram McDaniels is, er, a dragon?”

“A five-headed dragon, to be precise,” said Cecil. “But you should see the _other_ candidates.” As if in answer to Cecil’s comment, they came upon some more figures, milling in the hallway. “Oh, here we are. Carlos, this is Mr. Marcus Vansten. You remember the message he sent to my transmission?”

Carlos was brought up short. Mr. Vansten, at least, was a normal man. Carlos could see this very clearly, as Vansten was standing before them, naked as the day he was born. A number of mechanical men – attendants, Carlos assumed – stood around him. Unlike Babbage, these were splendidly appointed. One was completely plated in gold, another in silver, a third in platinum. Their eyes were rare jewels: diamonds, rubies, emeralds. Carlos couldn't help but glance back at poor Babbage, who tooted steam a bit forlornly he thought next to his preening brothers.

“Hello, Mr. Vansten,” said Cecil. “May I present-”

“Prince Cecil,” snapped Vansten. “Why has dinner been delayed?”

“I'm sorry,” said Cecil. “I just finished my wireless transmission, and I was showing Carlos-”

Vansten tapped on his pocket watch. It was solid gold. Of course. “I have things to do. I'm very, very rich.”

“Um, yes. Well, we'll-”

“And make sure my steak is cooked in put vegetable oil! My body is a temple!”

“I'm certain it is.”

“And no wheat! Or wheat by-products!” Vansten stepped forward, wagging a finger in Cecil's face. Carlos also stepped forward, pushing down Vansten's errant hand.

Vansten glared at him.

Cecil tugged on Carlos's arm. “Well, we must run. We're going to see Mr. Wilcox, to ascertain that he is ready.”

“Welllll, see that you do,” said Vansten as Cecil pulled Carlos away.

“How did he ever get into the running as your husband?” Carlos asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Oh, he probably bribed somebody. As you could clearly see, as a candidate he is … somewhat _lacking_ ,” Cecil added, arching an eyebrow.

Carlos broke into a smile. “Yes, not very impressive, is he?” 

“Though it is a bit drafty in these corridors.”

And so, as Babbage tromped after them, they made their way down the broad corridor, arm in arm, giggling like a couple of school boys.

Cecil paused before a double doorway. “I should warn you, Mr. Wilcox doesn't always take kindly to being disturbed.”

Carlos laughed. “I believe at this point I am prepared for anything.” 

Cecil knocked, but upon hearing no response, opened the door. They entered a large, high-ceilinged room. It had the look of a studio, with many wide windows, but all of them had been obscured by thick, dusty black drapes, so despite the artificial lighting it was very dark inside. Carlos was immediately struck by a number of unusual sculptures that dotted the room. They were monstrous figures, with many, slitted eyes, and long, slender tentacles instead of limbs.

“What is it now, Cecil?” came a wan voice. Carlos had been so distracted by the strange artwork that he hadn't noticed a young man slouched on a couch in back of the room.

“Mr. Wilcox, may I present Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan.”

The young man, Wilcox, made no move to get up. “Oh. He looks dreadfully ordinary, doesn't he?”

Carlos ignored the insult. “Are these your works?” he asked.

Wilcox rolled his eyes. “Well of course they are. There isn't anyone else in this dull town capable of such things.”

“They are quite unusual.”

“Well, I don't expect such as you could comprehend them.”

Carlos turned around. “I have a university education. I am a qualified medical doctor, and the ships naturalist aboard the HMS _Vigilant_. I doubt there is much you could produce that would be beyond my poor powers of comprehension.”

“You could not even speak their name, lest you go mad,” Wilcox warned.

“The Great Old Ones, you mean?” asked Carlos.

Abruptly, Wilcox was no longer slouching. In fact, he was no longer on the couch. He was, instead, standing in front of Carlos, clutching at his lapels, wide-eyed. “How do you know about the Great Old Ones?”

Carlos brushed off Wilcox and crossed his arms. “I could ask you the same question.”

Wilcox glanced over at Cecil, who told him, “Dr. Gutierrez MacLachlan is a learned man. Now, are you quite ready for dinner? We fully intend to start without you.”

Wilcox’s features, which were not pleasing in the best of times, formed themselves into a moue. “I shall collect myself and get to the table.”

“Splendid! Come along, Carlos.”

A thought occurred to Carlos as they sped along the corridor, and he had a chance to spy his reflection in one of the mirrors. “Cecil, I can't go to dinner in this state!”

“What are you talking about? Your hair is perfect!”

Carlos pointed to the mirror. “I'm in a state! These are the clothes I was wearing aboard the Vigilant to do surgery. They're hardly proper for a royal dinner.”

“Nonsense!” said Cecil. “We don't stand on formality here. Besides, this is less like a dinner, and more like … a picnic!”

“A picnic?”

“Yes, a picnic! Or maybe a tea party. Yes, a nice garden tea party. Come along, I'll show you!”

Cecil led Carlos out some French doors out to a patio area. True to Cecil’s word, there was a long table set up underneath the trees in the middle of a pleasant garden. Servants – both human and mechanical – fussed around arranging place settings. Carlos had been to a number of fancy dinners, but he had never seen such an assortment of strange cutlery as was arrayed on the table. Each place setting had no less than a dozen different pieces of silverware arranged beside and above it. There were objects that looked like corkscrews, and other implements that resembled eyelash curlers.

There was an old woman already seated at the dinner table. She was tiny: her legs didn't quite reach the ground. She wore glasses thick as the bottom of a crystal decanter. Her dark eyes refracted as large, inky pools.

Behind her stood some very unusual attendants. Carlos at first took them for yet more of the mechanical men, as they were too tall to be human. But one lazily flapped its gossamer wings and he somehow immediately knew that they were angels.

They were both holding little pieces of soft cloth, and were polishing up silverware.

“Josie!” said Cecil. “I'd like to present-”

“Carlos! My angels told me you were coming,” said Josie. Her voice was warm and scratchy. 

“He fell through the gate,” Cecil told her.

“You are Miss Josie? I'd really like to get back to my ship,” said Carlos. He hadn't thought of it all day, as so much had happened to him, but now suddenly he remembered the _Vigilant_ , and all of his obligations out in the world. “But the portal I fell through appeared to be closed.”

Josie looked back at the angels. They flapped their wings languidly, and nodded. “The portal will open again presently. Seven days,” she said.

“What?” asked Carlos.

“Return to where you fell seven days from now. That's when it will re-open.”

“Are you quite certain? It's on a schedule?”

“Well, of course. Magical things tend to happen in sevens!” She steepled her hands, and frowned. “Or – I don't know – it could just be a union thing.” One of the angels nodded, and placed a tiny, shining fork down at Josie's place.

“Thank you, Josie,” said Carlos, although his heart was sinking. The captain might stay for a day or even two to seek him out, but he was certain they would have cast off again after a week. And then where would he be: escaped, but stranded alone on an uncharted island.

Some more people were filing into the dining room. “Prince Cecil, may I speak with you!” called Miss Hidge, who appeared to have reconstituted since her disappearance. Cecil excused himself, and hastened over to speak with her.

Carlos found that Josie was regarding him, staring through thick spectacles. Carlos cleared his throat, thinking of something polite to say. “The situation with Prince Cecil’s marriage is very unusual to me,” he finally told her.

“It was time. The stars are in alignment, and it is time for Prince Cecil to wed,” Josie told him as the angels continued to polish the silverware.

“But you cannot see the stars from within Nightlantis,” said Carlos who immediately regretted his intemperance. 

Josie smiled. “But I know they are there. As you know your species adaptation takes place, even though you cannot see it happen.”

Carlos shrugged, wondering how much of the outside world Josie knew about. “I cannot argue with you.”

Josie opened the sugar bowl and took out a cube of sugar with a delicate pair of tongs. A small animal poked his head out of the bowl, snorted, and pulled the lid back on. “So tell me, Carlos, what do you think of the candidates?” Josie asked. “I presume you have now encountered all of them.”

Carlos sat down next to her. “I am afraid, ma’am, that I am not impressed with these individuals,” he said, keeping his voice low lest any overhear.

“Aren’t you? And why not?”

Carlos sat up straight. “You will have to excuse me: my culture and customs are quite different from yours. However, I do not believe that any of them have Prince Cecil’s best interests at heart.”

“And you do? You who have known him less than a day?”

“I can’t claim to know him perfectly,” said Carlos. “But I believe he has … a kind heart. Certainly, there is someone else who would be a better match.”

“You have found such a companion for yourself, Carlos?”

Unthinkingly, Carlos touched the pocket in his jacket where he kept the letter folded up. “I-“ he stammered.

“It's time, ladies and gentlemen,” said Miss Hidge, clapping her hands. Carlos noticed that Cecil was suddenly by his side. Carlos stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair.

“Where in heck is the mayor?” boomed Hiram McDaniels.

“She's caught on fire. This happens to mayors all the time! As the mayor's assistant, I have that capability as well.”

Carlos was poised to ask Miss Hidge whether they might have a demonstration, but Cecil jerked his head, and Carlos ended up following him to the other end of the table. Looking back and forth, Cecil surreptitiously snatched up a couple of place cards as they walked by. He then placed them side by side near the end opposite Miss Hidge. “Look! Such a surprise, we're sitting together,” he said. Babbage politely pulled two chairs back, and Carlos sat down next to Cecil.

A servant came up and poured wine for the both of them. At this point, Carlos was only mildly surprised to see that the servant happened to be an eight-foot-tall rabbit. With a word of “cheers,” Carlos drank it down and held up his glass for another. “A week!” he moaned. “Josie says I must wait a week for the portal to re-open. I don't see how my ship will stay around for an entire week searching for me.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry. Time passes more slowly outside than it does down here. You may have only been gone for a few minutes now!”

Carlos arched an eyebrow. The wine was good, though a bit young. He swirled his glass. “Time passes differently here? Really?”

“Yes, I think it has something to do with the clocks.”

There was a clanging and clinking and stomping and tromping a general commotion as more people filed in and got themselves settled at the long table. Hiram McDaniels, what with five heads and a good ten foot wingspan, had taken up a whole end of the table and six place settings all by himself. Marcus Vansten of course brought his shiny mechanical men with him, although he'd neglected to bother with any clothing. Henry Wilcox slouched in at some point as well, though the effort he spent glaring at Carlos seemed to have worn him out, as his slumped over his place setting and said very little throughout the dinner. Even so, the table was long enough that there were several empty places. Carlos only wondered about this for a bit, though, as one of the servants suddenly announced, “Time’s up, switch places!” And so began a mass shifting of everyone going at least one place to the right. As Cecil had placed them next to a stretch of empty places, both Cecil and Carlos got fresh setting, but some people weren’t so lucky. Wilcox ended up at the place of McDaniels’s orange head, which was much the worse for wear.

“The first course!” one of the servants announced, once everyone was settled. “Mock turtle soup!” The servants began dishing out a fragrant soup.

“I’ve never had this before,” Carlos told Cecil.

“It’s a delicacy. Mock turtles aren’t easy to catch!”

Carlos dipped his spoon into the liquid, and was surprised to bring up a pocket watch. He took it out and shook it. It was still ticking. 

“You’re an idiot,” said a voice.

“What?” asked Carlos. The voice seemed to come from his soup dish.

“Coming all this way,” said the dish. “And then falling down a hole.”

“Oh, you got an especially mocking version,” Cecil told Carlos. “Allow me!” He leaned over and glared at Carlos’s soup. “You lack salt.”

“What?” asked the bowl. 

“And you’re hardly savory.”

“I have been expressly seasoned by only the finest chefs!” countered the soup.

“I should have advised Carlos to try the profiteroles instead. It would have been a more flavorful first course.”

Carlos stared. The soup had started bubbling, and now appeared to be dribbling out of the bowl into the saucer. He scooted back so as not to get hot liquid on himself. 

“Oh, don’t try crying, we won’t listen to any of that!” Cecil told it. He leaned over with a napkin and dabbed at the side of the bowl. “Now, there, there.” 

“I was only trying my best,” sobbed the soup. 

Cecil motioned to the tall rabbit, who retrieved the soup and took it away. “Mock turtles act like bullies, but they’re really just insecure,” he said. “Oh, look, here is a Nightlantis speciality!”

The servants had brought out another bowl, and this time set down a box made of cardboard. The side of the box carried an illustration of a pyramid, and the logo, Flaky-Os. Cecil opened the box and shook it over his own bowl and Carlos’s. Some little rings poured out. Carlos picked one up and peered at it. “See?” said Cecil. He took one from his own bowl, tossed it up, and caught it in his mouth. 

Carlos, peering around cautiously to see if anyone was looking, repeated the gesture. “Oh, these aren’t bad!” he said. It was sweet and crunchy. 

“I like them with milk and sugar,” said Cecil, pouring out some fresh milk from a nearby pitcher. “And I prefer them to the imaginary corn flakes.”

“Imaginary corn flakes?” asked Carlos. Cecil pointed across the table, and he saw where Hiram McDaniels was peering into another box, this one labeled, “Mind Flakes.” There didn’t appear to be anything in the box, which was causing much frustration to several of Hiram’s heads. The green head finally spat fire at the box.

“Oh, toasted imaginary corn flakes. That’s a good idea,” said Cecil, measuring some sugar on his and Carlos’s Flaky-Os. “Now, take my advice and hurry.” Upon saying so, Cecil, raised the bowl to his mouth and began drinking his cereal. While Carlos wasn’t as bold, he did lean over and take several big bites.

“Time to switch!” hollered a servant, and, with Cecil taking a last big gulp of his cereal, he and Carlos moved again to fresh places on the right. This time the unlucky Wilcox, who was still following McDaniels, found himself at a place where the chair had been broken and all of the utensils melted. 

The main courses were coming around. There were many too choose from, so Carlos followed Cecil in asking for roast goose and jelly, which contained few surprises, although the jelly tended to wriggle off if you didn’t stab it with a fork. 

Vansten asked for some of the game pie, which turned out to be filled with broken badminton paddles. He got a string caught between his teeth, and had to have one of his robot servants pluck it out. McDaniels was attempting to eat some picked oysters, but it seemed they hadn’t been pickled very much at all, as they were all running around the table (which was rather odd, as oysters hadn’t any legs). He would occasionally aim a blast at fire at one, but his aim wasn’t terribly good, and he only ended up singing off Wilcox’s eyebrows.

They had just finished a fine dessert course of sticky plum duff when once again a servant cleared their throat. Carlos grabbed his cup of saloop, ready to run to another spot, but instead, Miss Hidge pinged a spoon on her glass and asked for silence.

“Now it is time for a few words from the candidates,” she said.

“I need to win,” pronounced McDaniel's blue head while his orange head blew on his cup of fried eels. “I'm the candidate … who cares!”

“What do you care about, dear?” asked Josie, who was now sitting opposite, although McDaniels's presence seemed to agitate her angel companions.

“I care about our children! And our children's future.”

“I've seen some of your children,” said Carlos. “I met a small group of them down on the lower levels.”

“Tamika and Barton,” said Cecil.

“Yes, Tamika and Barton and their friends. Do you care about them, Mr. McDaniels?”

The dragon's green head spat fire, which caught the tail of the tall serving rabbit. The rabbit squealed and ran out of the room. “Not _those_ children,” grumbled McDaniels. “I don't care at all for those children.” He leaned forward, his scaly neck extending. “They got a most unpleasant look to 'em.”

“Sooo,” said Carlos. “You care for children in general, but not in particular?”

“Yeah. I don't for those children, in general or in particular!” He mused. “Maybe spit roasted?”

Carlos cringed.

“I am obviously the best candidate,” said Wilcox, who was struggling to collect all of his blueberry tarts in a butterfly net. The puff pastry was lighter than air (possibly because of the addition of helium, Cecil told Carlos) and so they tended to float away with any breeze. “I have the superior aesthetic sensibility!”

“I could buy you out,” insisted Vansten. 

“My _objets d’art_ are not for sale,” Wilcox maintained. 

“What if I said I’d pay a thousand guineas for them,” said Vansten.

“Still no,” sniffed Wilcox.

“What if I said I’d let you keep your head,” growled McDaniels. Wilcox let out a shriek and let his turnovers escape, where McDaniels downed several of them with an especially well-aimed puff of flame.

“I am clearly the best candidate,” Vansten interrupted. “I don't see why anyone else is even bothering.” This caused McDaniels to flap his wings in agitation, which upset several place settings. 

“But you can't even dress yourself,” said Carlos, somewhat intemperately. (He had probably drunk more than his share of the wine at this point.)

“What do you mean?” asked Vansten. 

“Your deficiencies are rather on display,” said Carlos.

Vansten puffed up. “Well, you have shown yourself up for the fool you are! These garments are woven of only the finest imaginary silk, from John Peters's farm at the edge of town.

Carlos leaned forward. “You really haven't had occasion to read the tale by Anderson, ‘The Emperor's New Clothes?’”

Vansten, for the very first time, dropped his look of self-confidence. “Er, no. Is that, by chance … in a book?” 

“Yes, of course it's a book,” said Carlos. He noticed the sounds of tinkling glassware and silverware on china had ceased, and looked around the table at an array of frightened faces. Everyone was staring at him, including Cecil. “I'm sorry, but don't people here _read books_?”

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

“If everyone would please listen!” trilled Miss Hidge. Everyone winced. She once again pinged a silver spoon on a wine glass. McDaniel snatched the spoon away from her and, before one of his more sensible heads could intervene, it was gobbled up by his green head.

Several figures dressed in elaborate ceremonial robes now marched in tight formation out into the garden by the table. Carlos at first took them for military, but they did not seem to be carrying weapons. They were also not the robed figures Carlos had seen down below. In fact, as they approached it became clear that they were all dressed as playing cards. Everyone at the table began to talk amongst themselves.

“Who are they?” Carlos whispered to Cecil.

“The City Council.”

“And … why are they dressed like that?”

“You don't want to know.”

“As the stars are in alignment,” Miss Hidge continued. “By order of our Mayor, the Right Honorable Pamela Winchell, and undersigned by the City Council, it is time for our Voice, His Majesty, Prince Cecil, to be wed. The candidates will complete three tasks. At the completion of the three tasks, the winner will be selected by an unbiased jury, our City Council members, from amongst those candidates who are both still living and retain most of their limbs attached.”

Carlos cringed, and downed some more of his wine. 

“The tasks shall begin … now.” 

Suddenly, everyone started to pay attention. “What's the matter?” Carlos whispered to Cecil.

“No one knows what the tasks will be until they're announced.”

“They're different every time?”

Cecil nodded. 

“At this time, I would like to announce the first task,” continued Miss Hidge. Meanwhile, some of Miss Hidge's servants bore out a long, paper-wrapped package. They set it in the middle of the table. “This came to us through the inter-dimensional portal out in back of the llama farm.”

“Nightlantis has a llama farm?” Carlos whispered to Cecil.

“They're really alpacas, but we're not picky.”

“They're much nicer anyway,” said Carlos. 

The servants unwrapped the paper. A number of identical objects fell out.

“For the first task,” continued Miss Hidge, “you must demonstrate your adaptability by putting these objects to their intended use.”

Each of the candidates grabbed one of the items. 

“Impressive,” remarked Vansten. “A most impressive model of … this thing.”

“I've seen better,” scoffed McDaniels's blue head. “Many a time!”

“It looks so ordinary,” sniffed Wilcox, who stared into one end.

“What is it?” asked Cecil.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“It's a firearm, Cecil,” said Carlos. He snatched away the rifle Wilcox had been clutching: the artist had been staring down the barrel and fingering the trigger. “And you’re going to blow your damned head off, Wilcox.”

“This here is a gun?” asked McDaniels’s blue head.

“It’s a hunting rifle of some sort, though I’m not familiar with the design.” Carlos carefully sighted down the barrel, pointing it away from the table. He clicked a lever upwards and opened the breech. “It’s loaded,” he mused, snapping it back together.

He made to hand the gun back to Wilcox, who waved him off. “I want no part of this!” Wilcox insisted. “Firearms are not a wise aesthetic choice!”

“Here, go shoot someone,” Vansten told his mechanical men, handing the gun off to them. They bent metal heads over the device. “Maybe an angel, they’re a good target.”

Josie’s angels hummed their disapproval. “I don’t believe that would be a good idea,” said Josie, who was contentedly sipping her saloop.

“I wouldn’t mind a pair of wings above my mantelpiece,” said Vansten. 

In reply, McDaniels flapped his own leathery wings, and his purple head roared at Vansten. 

“Wait, wait. You don’t have to shoot a person,” said Carlos. “Here.” He picked up one of the empty plates from the table. “Allow me to demonstrate.” He handed the dish to Babbage and whispered to the mechanical man. Babbage, tooting that he understood, strode several paces away, and then when Carlos yelled, “Now!” tossed the plate high up into the air. Carlos aimed the weapon and fired.

The dish shattered, the shards raining down on them.

There a moment of silence, and then applause from around the table.

The City Council was silent for a moment, turning their backs to the crowd at the table. They bowed their heads together, and then a few of them shuffled to the front: 8 of hearts, 9 of spades, 6 of diamonds. The applause from those seated at the table increased.

“Oh, look! You had very good scores!” Cecil told Carlos.

“What?” said Carlos.

“Wait, we can do that,” said Vansten. “Shoot a dish,” he ordered is servant. The gold-plated platinum mechanical man swerved and aimed its rifle at the table. 

“Wait!” yelled one of Miss Hidge’s assistants. As everyone screamed and dove for cover, the mechanical man fired, shattering the big tureen in the middle of the table that had held the Beef Wellington.

As the parties at the table dug themselves out, the City Council conferred again. This time after the shuffle, 6 of hearts, 8 of clubs and 3 of diamonds came to the front.

“Only three of diamonds?” yelled Vansten.

“You ruined a perfectly good tureen,” scolded Miss Hidge. 

“He smashed a plate,” said Vansten, pointing to Carlos.

“Yes, but it wasn't full of food,” said Miss Hidge.

“Wait just a darn tootin' minute, I can do this too!” roared McDaniels. He tossed a plate high in the air, and then his purple head breathed fire at it, roasting it to a crisp.

The City Council conferred once again: 10 of spades, 8 of clubs, 3 of hearts.

“Three o' hearts?” yelled McDaniels.

“You didn't use the gun,” sighed Miss Hidge. “Then we have our three candidates, running in the following order so far: Mr. McDaniels, Mr. Vansten, and Dr. MacLachlan.”

Carlos was up on his feet as the table broke into applause. “What?” he said. “I'm sorry, what about Mr. Wilcox?”

“You fired the gun,” Josie reminded him.

“But … but I can't be a candidate!” Carlos protested.

“You don't want to be a candidate?” Cecil asked him, his eyes pleading.

Carlos sat back down to quietly speak to Cecil. “It's not.... I can't, Cecil.”

Cecil appeared to be blinking back tears. It tore Carlos's heart apart. “It's all right. I understand,” said Cecil, patting his arm. “You need to get back.”

“I need to get back,” Carlos repeated.

“So, am I to understand you are withdrawing your candidacy, Dr. MacLachlan?” asked Miss Hidge.

“I-” said Carlos.

“I will blacken his heart with my fire,” whispered McDaniels's purple head.

Carlos was silent. And then, scowling, he grabbed three plates off the table and tossed them out to Babbage. “Babbage!” he shouted.

The mechanical man deftly caught each plate and then tossed them up in the air, one after another. Carlos raised the rifle, causing everyone at the table to dive to safety once more, and with three quick shots, shattered all three.

The City Council shuffled and dealt: 10 of diamonds, 10 of clubs.

Queen of hearts.

“I- I formally announce my candidacy,” Carlos told Cecil.

Cecil's smile could have lit up an entire subterranean town.

 

“I hope you will be comfortable here,” said Cecil.

After dinner, Cecil had taken Carlos by the hand and led him across the garden to a small guest house on the edge of the grounds. But not before Josie and her angels had loaded him down with several pots of leftovers from the banquet, “In case you should get peckish tonight, dear.” He was now carrying them all, clumsily, in his arms.

The lights over the town had dimmed. Carlos guessed they did this for the nighttime here. He looked over at Cecil. His light eyes and silvery hair looked otherworldly right now. “Your hair reminds me of the moonlight,” said Carlos, feeling a little stupid as well as rather drunk. As a newly announced candidate, he had endured a number of toasts in his honor.

Cecil smiled, his eyes brightened. Carlos felt his heart flutter. “Really? I've never actually seen the moonlight,” said Cecil.

“I suppose you haven't.” Carlos considered this for a moment. “Funny, the stars determine your destiny, but I suppose you've never seen them either, have you?” _But he has stars in his eyes_ , Carlos felt himself thinking.

“No. But I'd like to! I'd love to go outside, and have adventures. But I guess it's not my fate.”

“I've been told that my fate is to stay home and grow fat.”

“So, how are you faring at that?”

Carlos chuckled, juggling the tureens of hot food, feeling suddenly clumsy. “Well. Good night.”

“Good night, Carlos,” said Cecil. He turned to go, but then seemed to have a second thought. “I'm- I'm very glad you're a candidate.”

“So am I,” said Carlos, before he could think about it. Cecil smiled, and walked off, and Carlos watched him.

Carlos turned towards the door, but hesitated. There was silence all around him. He looked down at the pots of food. “This is far too much for me,” he announced to no one in particular. “I really wouldn't know what to do with it all.” He knelt down and placed the food on the ground near his door, and then, without a look back, entered the house, shutting the door behind him with a determined thump.

For a very short time, as little as a breath, there was silence.

And then the patter of very quiet feet, as the pots and tureens were gathered by many small hands, and silently whisked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on chapter 3: the character of Henry Wilcox is taken from the Lovecraft story, The Call of Cthulhu. As you may have noticed, apologies are also owed to Mr. Lewis Carroll.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this one a bit early as I've reserved a large chunk of Sunday for fangirling Sherlock. BTW, this one gets a teensy bit NSFW, so take care if you're sneaking a read at work.

_Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1854_

“Thank you for accompanying me today.”

“It's my pleasure, Captain Cochrane,” said Carlos. He watched as the captain sat down on a rock wall and yanked off his boot. 

“Just Tom is fine. There's only the two of us out here,” said Cochrane, upending his boot and shaking it in an attempt to dislodge the offending pebble.

“Tom, then,” said Carlos. “I must admit, I usually do not fancy hunting for sport.” He patted one of the hunting dogs, who had padded up to investigate why its masters were stopped. “But I have been known to pursue the art when I am after specimens.”

“You have an interest in natural history,” said the Captain, who sat for a time evidently contemplating his footwear. He certainly did not seem in earnest to continue their hunting expedition.

“It's an avocation,” said Carlos. “As I am affianced, I will need to pursue my profession as a physician.”

“Ah, yes. My best wishes, and all that,” muttered the Captain. He had yanked his boot back on, but now was bringing out a silver cigarette case. He offered one to Carlos, who demurred. “Yes, filthy habit,” grumbled the Captain, who then lit up. “Picked it up during the Crimean War.”

The wind kicked up. The Captain pointed. “Did you hear that?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Listen.” The two men fell silent, as the wind gusted and then died. “It always sounds different going through the different stands of trees. Marvelous, really! I'll never quit listening to the wind. Probably the sea captain in me, thinking about the wind in my sails even when I'm ashore.”

Carlos nodded.

“So, I suppose your father told you I'm soon to leave on a surveying expedition for Her Majesty’s government.”

“Yes,” said Carlos, a bit wistfully it may be added. His thoughts drifted to distant lands, far beyond his father's estate. 

“We plan to go around the tip of the New World, and then we'll visit your friend Mr. Darwin's islands, the Galapagos.”

Carlos turned to stare at the Captain, wondering now if he was being taunted on purpose. He searched his mind, but couldn't think of any offense he may have committed against Cochrane. Was this is father's doings, perhaps? First he had been forced in into this ridiculous engagement with Temperance Hatrack, and now the Baron wanted to rub Carlos's face in it?

“...But he gets seasick. Seasick! Can you believe it?” Cochrane had slapped Carlos on the back, which brought him out of his reverie.

“I'm sorry,” said Carlos. “I'm afraid I rather drifted off.”

“Already asea, my lad? I was speaking of my naturalist, Carlos. He was all prepared to set sail with us, a young gentleman like yourself. Only it turns out he's of too delicate a constitution for a sea voyage! So I find myself about to shove off without my most important personnel.”

“A naturalist,” said Carlos. His mind was in a fog. “You need a naturalist aboard?”

“Just so.”

Carlos stood stock still. The dog, which had been sniffing the air, broke into a run. As the men watched, it charged across the field, disappearing into the heather. And then there was a rustling, and a flock of pheasants took wing. Without a thought, Carlos had his rifle braced against his shoulder. A shot rang out, and a bird fell. And then the sound of racing feet, and the dog had brought back the bird, safe in its mouth.

“Well, looks like we have tonight’s dinner,” said Tom, rubbing his hands together.

“We usually age them before they're served,” Carlos said absently, pulling the bird from the dog. “You need a naturalist aboard,” he added.

“We've been through this, Carlos. Yes! I need someone willing to serve as a naturalist aboard the _Vigilant_. Any idea who I could find on such short notice?” His face had broken into a cat-caught-the-canary grin.

 

_An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856_

Carlos sat up in bed, blinking blearily around in confusion.

It had begun innocently enough. During the night, he had encountered some trouble falling asleep. He had been listening to the clock ticking on his nightstand, and had remembered Cecil's remark about the clocks in Nightlantis. And so, having spotted a set of tools resting by the door, he had carefully disassembled the clock to find … absolutely nothing. It was completely empty of any mechanism inside. But it had been functional: he could swear he had heard it ticking, and observed the hands moving. Curious now, he had taken apart the clock in the sitting room as well. That one too was empty. And then the pocket watch he had fished out of his soup. He had then gone around and taken apart every timepiece in the guest house, only to find each and every one completely devoid of internal moving parts. The grandfather clock in the hall, which he had finished disassembling the very last, had instead of moving parts a kind of jelly inside, which appeared to sport a tuft of hair.

That had been his last memory before he drifted off to sleep. Or at least, he thought he remembered. But now, somehow, he was back in bed, and the clock beside him, which was perfectly intact, continued to tick. 

The knocking on the door began anew: that had been the noise that woke him up, apparently. He pulled on a dressing gown and leapt up to answer, expecting perhaps to see Cecil at his door. 

Instead, he was greeted by Babbage, who, after a quick bow, trundled in with a covered tray, which he sat on the table. “Thank you, Mr. Babbage,” said Carlos. He peeked under the cover, and was surprised to see a hot breakfast, with fried eggs and crisp bacon and thick toast and fresh butter and marmalade and fried potatoes and even some very hot, very strong brewed coffee (exactly the way Carlos preferred it). 

Carlos didn't sit, but (somewhat rudely, it may be said) picked up a rasher of bacon and nibbled at it as he followed Babbage, who had headed over to a mysterious cabinet in Carlos's sitting room. The mechanical man flipped a switch. The apparatus lit up and hummed, and then, all of a sudden, a familiar voice filled the room.

_“....reminds citizens that they are not allowed in our dog park. Do not go to the dog park. Do not gaze upon the dog park. If you see any hooded figures around the dog park, please ignore them. I am not to speak again of the dog park. In fact, please forget that I even mentioned it. No, quit thinking about it. Think about something else. Like gazelles!”_

“Is that Cecil's transmission?” Carlos asked Babbage, who, not having the power of speech, could not reply. “I suppose I should wash up,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I mean, before I’ve breakfasted, since you've presented me with this lovely meal.” Babbage tooted, and replaced the cover on the breakfast tray, which seemed to indicate agreement, so Carlos excused himself to go to the washroom.

He had started running the bath when he heard the noise, something like a yowl, but something like a moan. He looked up into the bathroom mirror above the washstand, and was startled to see what looked very much like a grin, just hanging in mid-air. Carlos did a double take, and then approached the mirror, wiping off the steam that had condensed there.

The grin appeared to be hovering just over his shoulder, but now it was attached to the head of what seemed to be a cat. Carlos turned with a start, surprised to see that now he had a fully formed striped tabby perched on his shoulder.

“Er, hello?” he ventured.

The cat repeated the odd sound, so he scratched it behind the ears, as he was rather fond of animals. Although the creature did not sound any happier, he could feel it vibrate as if it were purring. 

“Well, I need to take my bath now, before my breakfast gets too cold. I hope you don't mind.” Carlos gently picked up the cat and plucked it off his shoulder. He was somewhat surprised to find that instead of hopping to the floor, as a normal cat would, it ended up hanging in mid-air, where it seemed very contented. 

“So Nightlantean cats defy gravity?” asked Carlos. Well, it made as much sense as anything else here. He determined that he would ask Cecil about it, and, after disrobing, performed his ablutions. The cat watched for a while, and then, apparently bored with the whole thing, now did the appearing trick once again, only this time in reverse. Starting from the tip of the tail, it slowly disappeared, leaving nothing but the head, and then nothing but the large smile, which finally winked out, leaving Carlos alone to finish bathing.

Carlos emerged from the bath to find Cecil himself knocking on his door. “I hope I am not intruding at to early a time?” he asked.

“No, not at all!” said Carlos, sitting down at the breakfast table. “Would you like to share some of my breakfast? Mr. Babbage was so kind to bring it.”

“Well, I've already eaten, but I do love toast and marmalade. Would you mind if I had a bite?”

“No, be my guest,” said Carlos, even though Babbage tooted as though to say, _“You're being a bit of a pig, Cecil.”_ Cecil hungrily spread out butter and preserves on a slice of toast.

“You know,” said Carlos, “My country makes the best marmalade.”

“Rrrgh?” said Cecil, who had a mouth full of toast.

“Oh, yes. When you visit me, we'll sample some!”

“I would love to visit your country, Carlos!” said Cecil, once he had chewed through. “But I don't think I'll ever get to leave Nightlantis.”

“Why not?” asked Carlos.

“It's not my fate,” said Cecil, sadly buttering up some more toast. (He really was being just a bit greedy.) 

“There's been a lot of talk about fate lately,” grumbled Carlos.

Cecil considered his toast. “So, we have a bit of time before the City Council announces the next task. Would you like a tour of Nightlantis beforehand?”

“I'm very interested in that large building in the middle of town. The very grand one.”

“Oh, uh, the library?” Cecil put down his toast and shivered. “I don't think you want to go there.”

“Why not? Is it forbidden? Like the dog park?”

Cecil's eyes brightened. “Oh, would you like to go to the dog park? It's a lovely place!”

Carlos, once again, was speechless.

 

On Carlos's insistence, they had walked by the library, though Cecil was careful to keep a distance between themselves and the commanding edifice.

Carlos noticed something extremely odd about it: it was a very grand design, but there were no windows and no doors. “How does one get into the library?” he had asked.

“Why would you ever want to do that? The proper question is, how do you escape!”

But then they had taken a turn and meandered over to the dog park. There were several people there, all dressed in the monk-like cowls Carlos had seen the other day. Cecil greeted them all by name. “Hi Vincenzo! Hello, Ibrahim!”

And all of them were out walking their dogs. Carlos bent over to scratch behind the ears of a hound who reminded him of one of his old hunting dogs. There were some dogs that reminded him of home, and others that only served to underline the notion that home was so very far away: one figure in particular was huffing along with a three-headed dog on his leash. The animal, which was nearly the size of a bull, at least seemed well-behaved. 

“You like animals?” asked Cecil as they strolled through the very pleasant surroundings.

“I have a fondness for them. By the way, I met a most unusual feline in the washroom of the guest house. At least, I suppose it was a feline. He hovered in the air and then disappeared before my eyes.”

“Oh, you've met Khoshekh!” said Cecil. “He doesn't come out for just anyone, you know.”

Carlos smiled. If nothing else, at least Cecil’s cat liked him. “Do you have any idea what the next task will be?”

“I don't know. It's up to the City Council, and they-”

But Cecil abruptly stopped speaking when, all at once, every dog in the dog park began to bark and howl and generally cause a commotion. 

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and one of the hooded figures fell. There was panic and mayhem. Without thinking, Carlos leapt on top of Cecil, shielding his body.

Cecil wriggled out from under Carlos, and they both looked around. “Carlos, you’re a physician, go and help him!” Cecil told Carlos, pointing at the fallen man.

“Please be careful, Cecil!” said Carlos. He ran over to the fallen figure, who lay moaning and bloodied on the grass. A dog sat nearby, looking mournful. Carlos pulled open the robe. There was blood everywhere, but fortunately, it looked as if the wound was superficial. 

“Am I dead?” whispered the hooded man.

“You’ll be fine, I think,” Carlos assured him.

“That’s most fortunate, because I am in arrears on my dues to the Esoteric Order of Dagon!”

“My listeners, please remain calm!” Cecil urged as men and dogs cowered around the park, full of fear.

“Begone, savage Negro!” came a call. The blood in Carlos’s veins froze. He turned around, and there was Thurston, eyes half mad, standing in the middle of the park, pointing a rifle directly at Cecil.

“I am sorry,” said Cecil, facing down Thurston, “but people are strictly forbidden from the dog park!”

“Cecil,” whispered Carlos, who was in a panic.

“Are you the one? The one who murdered my uncle, you black bastard?” raved Thurston.

Cecil calmly crossed his arms. “I do not believe your uncle and myself to be acquainted. And by the way, that isn’t a terribly courteous form of address. You, sir, are a racialist!”

“Thurston!” said Carlos, who sprang over to stand by Cecil.

“Dr. MacLachlan needs to attend to his patient,” said Cecil, holding out an arm to bar Carlos getting any closer to Thurston. Carlos glanced at Cecil, and then reluctantly retreated to tend to his patient. “And by what right do you go around shooting my listeners, anyway?” Cecil continued. “I have enough troubles with competing wireless transmissions as it is. I’ve heard there is a growing group of citizens who are now listening to the random numbers transmission instead.” 

“Not us, Cecil!” ventured one of the hooded figures. “Those random numbers are boring.”

“And they’re not very random,” sulked another. They were slowly venturing out of their hiding places to come stand by Cecil, facing Thurston, who despite his mania we beginning to look unsure of himself.

“Why are you listening to the random numbers anyway?” asked a third hooded figure. “That’s not very loyal to Prince Cecil.”

“I dunno. I was tired of hearing about the City Council’s dealings all the time.”

“They’re definitely not playing with a full deck. Always nattering about Old Ones this, Elder Gods that…..”

“The Elder Gods!” roared Thurston, now waving the gun at the robed figures. “What do you know of them?”

Carlos had hung his jacket on a tree and was working in shirtsleeves to bind his patient’s wound. “What do you know of them, Thurston?” he called. “You are the one who made us aware of this island.”

“I know of him! Beneath the island R’lyeh, Cthluhu lies dreaming!” said Thurston. 

Cecil heaved a sigh. “Yes, I know. Kind of a narcoleptic. Not much fun at parties, Cthulhu.”

“That’s why you’re after me!” declared Thurston.

“Why would we be after you for that?” asked one of the hooded figures.

“Because he didn’t get invited to one of Cthulhu’s parties?” asked another.

“Well, hardly worth shooting someone.”

“Depends on the party!”

“This isn’t over a party!” insisted Thurston. “This is-“ He jerked, and the gun went off in his hands. 

Everyone ducked once again, but this time several of the dogs went racing after him. Gripping his weapon, Thurston bolted. 

“Thurston, wait!” shouted Carlos, leaping up to give chase. But Thurston was already vaulting the short fence that bordered the dog park and fleeing into the city. Carlos lit off after him, ignoring Cecil’s shouts, and ran through then narrow streets. 

Thurston ran down a narrow stairway towards one of the lower levels, and Carlos pursued him. He ended up in some unfamiliar area with much clinking, clanking heavy machinery. There were massive gears turning around, and pistons and the sound of steam. “Thurston!” shouted Carlos.

A shot rang out, and Carlos ducked as the masonry behind him shattered. He looked around, but the entire chamber was filled with gears and movement and steam and noise. “Thurston!” he yelled again. This time he heard a distinct clang. He ran over towards the sound, and found a round hatch in the floor. He pulled at it, but it appeared to be locked. He cursed, wishing that he had Babbage along with him. 

He climbed back up to Nightlantis's main level and made his way back to the dog park. Most everyone had scattered to the winds, but Cecil remained, talking to a couple of the hooded figures. “Carlos!” he called, and, to Carlos’s surprise, he ran over and threw his arms around him. “I was worried about you! You shouldn’t have taken off like that!”

“I’m fine,” Carlos assured him as Cecil clung onto him. “I assure you. But Thurston got away. And he still has a weapon.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” said Cecil. To Carlos’s relief, he loosened his grip. “And the hooded figures say they’re in your debt, so if you need anything….” He pointed to the figures who remained. They nodded, and then lead their dogs away.

“That’s awfully kind of them,” said Carlos. And then, to his dismay, Cecil leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Thank you for protecting me. That was very brave!”

Carlos’s neck had turned bright red. “That was…. I mean…. I just….” 

“Now,” said Cecil, “we have to get going. The City Council has decided on the second task.”

Touching the spot on his cheek where Cecil had kissed him, Carlos turned towards the park and looked around. “My jacket,” he said absently.

“Yes?” asked Cecil.

“I hung it on one of the trees. But I don’t see it.”

“That’s odd,” said Cecil, who looked around as well. “Well, it will be fine, we’ll just get you another jacket. Come on!” 

Carlos, after looking around one more time in confusion, set off with Cecil to his residence. Babbage met them at the door to Cecil’s chambers, huffing and puffing in consternation. “Oh, Babbage, don’t fuss,” Cecil scolded. “I need to change clothes myself, so why don’t you make yourself at home, Carlos? Babbage will search the wardrobes for something appropriate.”

Carlos sat down on a couch. “All right,” he said, although he was a little fearful as to what Babbage might pull out of the Prince’s closet: although Carlos had already developed quite an affection for him, Cecil did have a rather odd dress sense. The first few selections did not ease his mind: there was a jacket that seemed to be entirely constructed of grass, and another of more suitable material, but seeming dyed to display every color of the rainbow.

“I think you’d better leave this one to Mr. McDaniels,” Carlos told Babbage, hoping that he was not seeming too fussy.

Cecil, who had changed to a dressing gown, came and sat down next to Carlos, laughing out loud. “Bring him something for a military man,” Cecil told Babbage, who tromped away. “Would you like a drink, Carlos?”

“If you are having one,” said Carlos. Cecil leaned forward and picked up a decanter that was sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He poured the rich amber liquid into two glasses.

As Cecil leaned over, his dressing gown hung forward, and Carlos noticed some odd markings on Cecil’s chest. “Cecil,” he said as Cecil handed over a glass, “I hope this is not too forward, but your chest….”

“Oh, my tattoo?” asked Cecil. He pulled his dressing gown open to reveal a purple marking shaped like a large eye inked across his chest.

“That’s unusual,” said Carlos, who couldn’t help staring. “We’ve encountered some native peoples with similar markings.”

“Yes, it’s right over my heart, do you see?” asked Cecil, and with no further ado, clasped Carlos’s hand and placed it flat over the eye. “Can you feel it?”

“Uh,” said Carlos. True, he could feel Cecil’s heart beating, but he could also feel his own thumping away in his chest. Cecil’s skin was warm, and so very soft. “I-“

There was a tromping noise, and Babbage appeared once again, holding a jacket. 

Cecil dropped Carlos’s hand. “Oh, look at this, I think this is quite suitable, don’t you?” Carlos finally dragged his attention to the garment in Babbage’s clawed hand. It actually looked quite decent.

“Yes, I think that will do,” said Carlos.

“Oh, perfect. Now let’s just get you out of that shirt!” said Cecil.

“I’m sorry?” Carlos managed to squeak as Cecil began to assault his buttons. “Well, we can’t have you gadding about in the same old shirt with a brand new jacket, can we?”

And so it was that sometime later, Carlos found himself wearing a mauve silk shirt (he had refused the ruby cravat Cecil had been foisting on him on the account that it made his neck itch). He had to admit, it was one of the finest garments he'd ever worn. His parents, although they had always possessed enough money to remain comfortable, didn't believe in such fancy items. 

“That shirt fits really well,” Cecil had purred, which only added to Carlos's discomfiture. He wasn't entirely certain why he was continually feeling flustered when he was in Cecil's presence. The man was forward, it was true, and tended to sit a little too close, and his eyes were really lovely....

Carlos shook his head. He tore his eyes from Cecil's and gazed around the room, at the piles of various articles of clothing which had been picked up and discarded. 

And then he got an idea.

“Cecil, you have a lot of clothing.”

“Isn't it ridiculous?” asked Cecil, leaning back on the couch. “I have garments for any and every occasion, and garments for no occasion at all! But people know I like them, and give me gifts, and who am I to refuse? I really am to clothing like the Old Ones were to architecture, with all the stairways going nowhere....”

Carlos fingered a jacket that had been thrown over the back of the couch. It was an impossible color and a phantastical style, but constructed of nice warm materials. “Is it possible that you could part with any of these items?”

“Hmm? Well, I'd probably never miss the bigger part of them, to be honest!”

“Because, I might know of a situation in which they might be useful. Um, some, acquaintances of ours, you might say.” Carlos held out his hand, to more or less the height of a child.

Cecil stared for a long moment, but then lit up like one of Nightlantis's artificial lights. “Of course! Babbage, let's sort out some of my less favored clothing!”

After they were at it for a while (to Carlos's astonishment, Cecil's extensive wardrobe included some rather nice dresses, possibly gifted from people who were still under the impression he was Cecilia) they had amassed several bags of clothing, which, with Babbage's assistance, they placed outside where the garden party had been hosted the other day. 

“No need for these!” Carlos said, a bit too loudly and too brightly. “Now, let's go to our meeting!” Babbage began to steam off, and so did Carlos. He had to reach back and tug Cecil along when Cecil spent a bit too much time lingering and grinning and looking around.

“Do you think they will appreciate my cast offs?” Cecil whispered.

“I predict good use will be made of them!” said Carlos, pulling Cecil along. 

Thus, they arrived at the meeting arm in arm, to glares from the other candidates: one from Marcus Vansten, and five different glares, plus a snort of fire, from Hiram McDaniels. (Wilcox, of course, had already dropped out, so was probably in his chambers, looking glum.) Carlos decided that their proximity probably appeared inappropriate, and so dropped Cecil's hand, much to Cecil's apparent dismay. 

Fortunately, Miss Hidge bustled into the well-appointed sitting room, accompanied by her aides, and the City Council after them, all freshly shuffled.

“Where is the mayor?” groused Vansten.

“She has degenerated into a thin, greenish layer of throbbing protoplasm, as is the right of all mayors!”

Carlos believed he would like to see this, but kept his peace.

“We are here to announce the next task,” said Miss Hidge, her voice taking on unpleasant overtones. “Which shall be … hunting a snark!”

“What?” demanded Vansten as McDaniels's green head snorted fire. “We can't fight a snark!”

“And furthermore,” said Miss Hidge, ”you will return the snark alive.”

“But what if it's a Boojum?” demanded McDaniels.

“Then you will disappear,” said Miss Hidge, who followed the comment with a most unfortunate smile. “The good news is, we shall open Nightlantis's armory for you. You may choose any implements you feel you need for this task.” Her aides threw open a heavy wooden door, and suddenly, they could see a vast vault stocked with an amazing array of implements of mass mayhem. 

“What in heaven's name is a snark?” Carlos asked Cecil as the other candidates fell upon the store of weapons with a great rattling and clattering. “I am a naturalist, and I have never heard of such a thing.”

“You don't want to find weaponry, Carlos?” asked Cecil, who looked concerned.

“I would much rather be apprised of my, er, opponent first,” said Carlos. He cast a glance at McDaniels, who was now carrying a mace and what looked like a stash of dynamite, and Vansten, who had his mechanical men carrying swords and shields and something that looked like a miniature canon.

 

“Finding them’s no bother,” said Josie. “It’s the catching them’s the trick.”

Carlos was over at her home, which was near something called a Used Car Lot. It was a large space occupied by many incredible metal vehicles of uncertain purpose. “Are these steam powered?” he asked, glancing into a window of a large, black one with the word “Impala” emblazoned on the back.

“Nobody knows,” said Josie. “Probably one of our temporal anomalies.” She pointed upwards. There were several strings of bright flags strung across the area. “Watch the breeze. That’s how you know a snark is near,” she instructed. Then she held out her hands. One angel presented her with a silver flask, and another, a glass. She calmly poured out a drink, and set the glass in the middle of the asphalt. And then she and the angels and Carlos retreated behind one of one of the larger vehicles to wait.

“So, the snark favors alcohol?” whispered Carlos as they waited.

“Only the best Scotch. They’re fussy buggers,” huffed Josie.

“I appreciate your doing this for me,” said Carlos.

She looked him up and down, her dark eyes blown up to twice their size refracting in her thick spectacles. “Perhaps I’m not doing it for you.” An angel let out a sort of a purr.

“I’m not quite certain why _I_ am doing any of this,” Carlos admitted.

“Do you wonder what will happen upon the occasion of a candidate winningCecil's hand?” asked Josie.

“Well, I suppose there will be a wedding?” She seemed to imply something else, but before Carlos had a chance to inquire further, she held up her hand. 

“Look,” said Josie, gesturing towards the strings of flags. Suddenly, the ones far away began to flap, as if in a strong breeze. The wind picked up, and Carlos watched as flags closer and closer by began to flutter.

Josie grabbed his arm, and she, Carlos and the angels ducked down on the lee side of the large vehicle just as the wind howled and everything shook. For a moment, Carlos was afraid the vehicle beside them was going to upend and crush them: the wind was that strong.

And then, just as swiftly, the noise ceased, and all was calm.

They emerged from hiding, and gathered around where the drink had been poured out. The glass remained, but it was empty.

“As I said,” said Josie, “the trick is catching the beastie.”

Carlos smiled and picked up the empty glass. “I think I might have an idea.”

 

Carlos stilled the dogs. He and Cecil had talked to the hooded figures, and he had ended up borrowing a couple of mid-sized hounds and a rather opinionated little terrier. Since no one had apparently actually seen a snark, he decided that he would employ a variety of animals. He had given all of them Josie’s empty whiskey glass to sniff, so they would at least have the smell of the creature, if not any idea of its appearance.

He had chosen a wooded area on the edge of town they called Grove Park. Cecil had warned Carlos not to notice the shadowy shape that hovered there, all the while pointing it out and talking about it of course. Carlos thought it was scientifically interesting, and Cecil promised to take him to tour Radon Canyon at some point. 

Carlos had, finally, banished a very reluctant Cecil, with promises that he would flee upon being confronted with a Boojum, whatever the hell that was. And then he sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind make its way through the trees. He removed the flask Cecil had given him from his new jacket and poured out a glass of whiskey, sparing a sip for himself before he corked the flask. 

And then, placing the glass up on a rock, he retreated behind some bushes. The terrier whined, and Carlos smiled, scratching it behind the ears. “None for you, my friend. But you'll have a goodly hunt soon, I promise.”

The air was warm, so Carlos shrugged out of his borrowed jacket and hung it up on a branch. Then, thinking twice about it, carefully folded it up and hid it in a bush. He didn't want any thieves snatching the jacket Cecil had so kindly loaned him.

The breeze gusted, and Carlos listened carefully. The leaves rustled through each stand of trees, each encounter having a slightly different tenor. He sat and listened, quietly petting the dogs. His mind began to wander. He began to wonder if he would ever make it back to the _Vigilant_. Certainly Cecil claimed time worked differently here, and it wasn't terribly hard to believe. _Everything_ worked differently here. The mayor was some sort of mystical nonentity, the Council was a pack of cards, mechanical men roamed the city, and his rival for the affections of Prince Cecil was literally a five-headed dragon.

And that was another thing: Carlos had not only fallen into some kind of portal, he had also fallen into a romantic rivalry based around another man. He imagined telling Captain Cochrane about the entire story. Perhaps the captain would listen with sympathy. There were persistent stories, which Carlos neither believed nor disbelieved, that some of the young acquaintances the Captain visited at various ports were in fact young gentlemen.

Or not so much gentlemen. The wind rustled, and Carlos snapped back to reality. There, over by that stand of willow trees. Now closer, the ash trees. Yes, moving closer. 

He gripped one of the hounds by the collar. It whined, very softly. Closer. Closer.

Carlos jumped to his feet. “Go!” he ordered, and the dogs were off, howling and barking, the little terrier at the lead. The wind – which was not a wind at all – abruptly changed direction, heading off over the tall grass towards a copse.

Grabbing his knapsack, Carlos took off running after the dogs. He had never tried pursuing the hunting hounds, and soon saw why, as he tripped on roots and stumbled underneath low branches. He got his foot snagged in a hole and crashed into some brambles, ripping up both his back and Cecil's borrowed shirt. Cursing a blue streak, using a lot of the vocabulary he had picked up on his voyage on the _Vigilant_ , he picked himself up and hurried after the sound of lowing and barking, though it was growing farther and farther away in the distance.

Bleeding and aching, he finally came to a very large, very ancient oak tree, three dogs barking beneath it, the little terrier scratching and scraping at the bark.

“Is he up there? Our snark?” he asked as he stood, flush-faced and out of breath. He peered up into the branches, but had no idea how high his quarry might have gone. He did notice that the wind had ceased. He wondered if the creature had stopped for fear or necessity: the tree was on the margin of a field, so there was no place to jump off.

Carlos had been an eager tree-climber since he was a small boy, so, shrugging his shoulders, he grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself up. And then, quietly and carefully, made his way further up, unsure of what he might find at the top.

Higher and higher he climbed, with no sign of the snark. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, sparing a look downwards, where he could still hear the hounds carrying on. The branches were growing more thin and brittle up here, and he started to worry that they would carry his weight. He wondered if he should have shed his boots before he climbed.

That's when he saw it, a slight rustle in the leaves overhead, as if by a small gust of wind. But the wind had died down. He resumed climbing, trying not to pay too much attention to the branches, cracking and protesting under his weight. There was no pool underneath him this time, he knew: no chance of a last minute rescue should he fall.

And then he came to a place where a branch must have fallen. He emerged from the canopy, and peered up at a branch just overhead, just out of his reach.

It was so terribly small, and something like a mouse. Its nose twitched as it sighted him, and for a moment, they stared at one another. “All that trouble, just from you?” Carlos asked softly, pulling his rucksack off his back. “You have nowhere to run, you know,” he added, noticing that the top of the tree was only a little further on. “Why not just come with me?” Gritting his teeth, his back protesting where he had shredded it in the brambles, he eased himself out further on his branch. Carefully and quietly, he raised a hand....

The creature hopped up, just out of his reach, and out of sight behind a cover of leaves.

“Damn!” sighed Carlos. Was it going to be all of this for a standoff at the top of the tree? He didn't think he could climb all the way to the top. Moving ever so slowly, he tried the next branch up. It crackled and bent. He sighed, and tried standing up on the branch he was now perched upon. 

His head pushed through a cover of leaves, and he found himself face to face with a wriggling snark.

Its tail was being held in a mouth. A mouth that, at the present time, did not appear to be attached to a head, or much of anything at all.

Carlos stared. “Khoshekh?” he asked softly. And, as if its name was an invocation, the striped cat suddenly appeared before him, grinning and holding its prize.

Carlos stuck out a tentative, trembling hand. “May I...?” he asked. The mouth opened, and the snark dropped into Carlos's hand. He quickly shoved the little creature into his knapsack, and closed the top. “Thank you, Khoshekh! I really appreciate this!”

The cat let out an unearthly yowl, and then, lazily, disappeared again, beginning at the tip of its tail, and ending with its wide kitty grin.

Carlos was grinning himself when he made it back to the ground.

 

Cecil was wrapped around him with arms tight as strong as iron bars. “Carlos, I was so worried,” he sobbed.

Carlos looked around the room. Several of Hiram McDaniels's heads were now quarreling with Miss Hidge. There was no sign of Marcus Vansten.

“Did Vansten-”

“It was a Boojum,” sighed Cecil. “No way of knowing. According to witnesses, he just disappeared. When you were late, I thought....” 

Carlos cupped Cecil's face. “Dear Cecil, I am completely fine, as you can see. Chin up, man! I have another victory!” He eyed McDaniels. His green head was now spitting fire. “What's gotten into McDaniels?” 

“He claims he caught not one but two snarks,” said Cecil. “But the first was inadvertently roasted by his fires. He says he should get extra points, but the City Council is balking.”

“I hope they don't relent,” laughed Carlos. “Oh, by the way, unfortunately, I've destroyed your beautiful shirt.”

“What?” asked Cecil. Carlos shed his jacket, and showed Cecil the evidence of his encounter with the brambles.

“Carlos, my dear! You're bleeding!” sobbed Cecil, who seemed beside himself.

“I'll be fine, I just need somewhere to wash up....”

“You're coming with me! Straightaway!” said Cecil. “Babbage!” he ordered his mechanical man. “Tell Miss Hidge and the City Council that I've left to get urgent, life-saving medical care for Dr. MacLachlan!”

“But Cecil-” Carlos started before he was dragged away, leaving him wondering how Babbage, who despite many prodigious accomplishments, could not speak, would convey any message to anyone.

Carlos and Cecil arrived back at Cecil's large suite of rooms. Cecil at once set up a fire in the sitting room fireplace (Carlos marveled that he didn't have servants to do this for him) and then carefully washed Carlos's back and sides himself with a warm washcloth while he pressed Carlos with glass after glass of a sweet, smoky liqueur. Cecil had partaken of a couple glasses himself, with seemed to help calm his agitation. Carlos sat up in a rather comfortable overstuffed couch, the damaged shirt long since doffed, watching Cecil apply some kind of warm ointment to his scratches. 

“It's probably good that you are doing this. Some of the scratches were deeper than I thought,” said Carlos, his mind warm from the fire and the alcohol and the sweet, vaguely flowery scent of the oinment.

Cecil had excused himself for the hundredth time to go get some bandages. He had returned with a roll of soft gauze. “Um, do you mind?” he muttered, and, to Carlos's amusement, scrambled into Carlos's lap to wrap the bandage around his middle. 

“You have soft hands,” said Carlos. 

“Thank you,” said Cecil, leaning close to pass the gauze around Carlos's back.

Carlos reached out a finger to stroke Cecil's cheek. “And soft skin.”

“Thank you.” Was Cecil actually blushing? 

Carlos placed a finger under Cecil's chin and tilted his head up. He wasn't certain what had driven him to be so bold. “And your eyes are like starlight.”

Yes, Cecil was definitely blushing, dark cheeks highlighted pink. It was lovely. He clasped Carlos's hand, and placed it on the bandage. “Hold this,” he whispered. And then he scrambled off of Carlos to grab some string. He drew nearer again, but seemed shy.

Carlos dropped his hold on the bandage and, grabbing Cecil by the waist, pulled him back into his lap. “And you hair is moonlight.”

Cecil was shaking his head. “But I’ve never seen-”

“I'll show you,” said Carlos. And he realized, just in that moment, that he very much meant it. “I’ll show you the moon, and the stars, and all the other horrid romantic clichés. I wish sometimes I had read the poets instead of all those scientific papers, because I can’t say what I’m feeling right now, or what you’ve come to mean to me, even in this short time we’ve known each other. I know I can’t really compare you to the moonlight: the moon only casts reflected light, and you – you seem to have your own light source, something that’s illuminating you from within, and now I’ve tangled the words and made it all wrong.”

Cecil did appear lit from within, just then, his eyes shining so. _I could be hanged for this_ , Carlos thought. Their eyes met for a long moment, but then finally, Cecil glanced down. “Your bandage,” he whispered, brushing a hand on the gauze, which had unraveled.

“Blast my bandages,” said Carlos. He gently tilted up Cecil’s head. And then he leaned forward, just a fraction, and their lips met.

And he was truly lost.

How long had they been kissing when Cecil gently pushed him back? Carlos had no idea: he’d lost all sense of time. “Carlos, my dear, is this really what you want?” Cecil asked.

“ _You’re_ what I want,” said Carlos. “What I’ve been searching for.” He ran a thumb along Cecil’s bottom lip, which was now plump from kissing. Cecil pulled him close, and Carlos gently lowered Cecil down on the couch, marveling at the feeling of contact, the electrical charge of skin on skin. Pieces of clothing were discarded and tossed thoughtlessly away, until the both of them were bare as Marcus Vansten, and moving in sync. Carlos had never felt so close to someone ever before, delighting in every soft moan and gasp he evoked from Cecil. _His_ Cecil. He no longer cared anything for the results of any ridiculous tasks: they belonged to each other now. 

Cecil sighed, whispering his name. Carlos pushed inside him, slowly, tenderly. “My Cecil,” he murmured. “I'm yours.” 

They lay on the couch, legs tangled together, Cecil’s head resting on Carlos’s beating heart, Carlos running a tender hand through Cecil’s soft, silver hair. His hand traced down to where the large image of an eye was penned onto Cecil's chest, just over his heart.

“This is to remind me that the eyes of the Old Ones are ever upon me,” said Cecil.

Carlos paused, suddenly thoughtful. “Cecil,” he whispered, “I was talking to Josie. What is going to happen to you when all the tasks have been completed?”

With an effort, Cecil pushed himself up. He looked pained. But then there came an urgent knocking on the door. Carlos hastily pulled on his pants and shirt and Cecil donned a dressing gown and went to the door.

It was Josie at the door, her angels standing in back of her, wings flapping in agitation. “Cecil,” she said. “The third task has been handed down. It’s not official yet, but I needed to tell you.”

Cecil beckoned them to enter. “What is it, Josie? It can’t be that bad!”

But the story was in her eyes. “Cecil. The third task: _to check out a library book_.”

Carlos tilted his head, laughing. “What? I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound so- Cecil!” 

But then he was down on the floor, holding Cecil, who had collapsed to his knees, racked with terrified sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes to Chapter 4: As you might have guessed, the snark is borrowed from Lewis Carroll, as is Khoshekh's especially weird behavior. As far as I am aware, there weren't actually any Chevy Impalas during the Victorian era, more's the pity.


	5. Chapter 5

_Port Stanley, Falkland Islands, Year of Our Lord 1855_

The arrow thrummed. The bird fell.

“I’ll be damned,” said Captain Cochrane. As they were out of range of any polite ears, he did not apologize for his profanity, but only lit up another cigarette. “You’re as true a shot with a bow as any man with a gun.”

“I’ve found an arrow causes less damage to my specimens,” Carlos explained, scrambling up the hill to locate his prize. Fortunately, the bird had not fallen too far away. He did though regret the lack of hunting dogs on board. “And,” Carlos continued as the captain enjoyed his smoke, “unlike ammunition, arrows can be reused.” He plucked the arrow out of the bird, as if in demonstration.

“Bow hunting, rifles, and I heard from some of the crew you’re no slouch at throwing knives.”

Carlos blushed. “That was a silly bet,” he acknowledged. “I was a little under the influence.”

“For a man of medicine, you are one deadly individual, Dr. MacLachlan. I pity any pirates who might falter aboard.”

“Not likely that we’ll come upon pirates on this voyage,” laughed Carlos. 

“You never know,” laughed Cochrane. “And now, let's hasten in. I've heard tell it's mail call today.”

Carlos stiffened. “Mail call? Here?”

“I've seen the ship come in. Come on, Carlos. Maybe it'll be a message from that sweetheart of yours back in Scotland.”

Carlos's whole manner darkened. 

“Aw, don't worry, Carlos,” said the Captain as they began to walk. “I promise I won't tell her about that girl in Rio.”

“What- What girl in Rio?”

“No way of telling it was actually a boy,” said Cochrane, winking and strolling off.

Carlos bit his lip.

 

_An Uncharted Isle, The Pacific Ocean, Year of Our Lord 1856_

Carlos had administered a mild sedative to Cecil, and he was now sleeping, albeit fitfully, on the couch, while angels hovered nearby.

“I don’t understand how this will work, Josie,” said Carlos. “I’ve been around your library. There are no entrances.”

“Yes. And no exits,” she said. 

Carlos sat down on the couch next to Cecil. “I don’t understand.”

“The librarians are the most ferocious creatures in Nightlantis,” Josie explained. “We are afraid of them: so afraid, most avoid even speaking the name. It is thought by some that they are the descendants of the original residents, the Old Ones. Others say the librarians were created as their servants.”

“But you don’t know?”

“Even my angels fear them. The Old Ones dwell on the lowest depths of Nightlantis, where no one dares go. And a few of them are said to roam the library, as librarians.”

Carlos sat back, watching Cecil breathe. So that explained why everyone here started to tremble when you mentioned books or the library. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Josie sighed and, pushing up her spectacles, rubbed her eyes. “I've heard tell that firearms ain't of any use against them. And people have tried all sorts of tricks, including silver bullets.”

“Silver bullets?” Carlos thought about it. “Is there anything that baits them, like the whiskey for the snark?”

“Haven't heard anything. Why someone would want to bait them, I don't know. Once you're in the stacks, they'll find you.”

Carlos sighed. He was a man who felt he could defend himself, but he liked to arm himself beforehand. He thought of a whole city cut off from knowledge, and it grieved him.

“One thing, an old story,” mused Josie. “I don't see if it will be of any use, but they say, if you can pin down a librarian, they'll be constrained to answer your questions.”

“Pin it down?” asked Carlos. “Are we supposed to wrestle?” Carlos suddenly imagined grappling with a librarian. How would it fight him? Would it rap his knuckles with a ruler? Perhaps toss a quill pen at him? It didn't make any sense. Although he had to admit nothing much in this world made a lot of sense. Which brought up another question.

“The library doesn't even have any doors. How will I ever get in?”

“You'll wake up inside, with a slight headache, and no memory of how you came to be there,” sighed Cecil.

Carlos turned in shock at the sound of Cecil's voice. “Cecil....” Cecil attempted to sit up, but Carlos gently pushed him back down. “Cecil, you are in a state. Please....”

“I can't be of use to you if I'm knocked out!” Cecil protested. Josie's angels fluttered in agitation. 

“You've upset the angels,” Carlos chided.

“No,” said Josie. She went to the door, and Cecil and Carlos followed her, Carlos with a worried arm around Cecil.

Josie carefully pushed the door open. Everyone looked around.

Standing around was a group of children, all dressed in bright, mismatched clothing. Cecil’s old clothes: Carlos immediately recognized the jacket made of grass, and several other peculiar garments.

Two children stood a bit nearer: Tamika and Barton. Tamika was wearing a woman’s brocaded gown over her shirt and pants, and Barton sported some kind of bright purple deerskin vest. Both grinned, and Tamika pointed to a case left in the middle of the clearing.

And then, with no signal, the children scattered, and disappeared from whence they’d come. 

Still barefooted, Carlos ventured out and squatted down next to the case. He opened the latches and viewed the contents.

“What is it, Carlos?” Cecil called from the doorway.

“A viola. My own viola, to be specific,” said Carlos, picking it up, setting it to his chin and drawing a bow across it. A lovely, low music emitted. 

Cecil drifted out nearby. “Carlos,” he whispered. Josie’s angels hummed with pleasure. “How are you doing that?”

Carlos looked up from his instrument and glanced around the yard, where the children had been standing. He looked back at Cecil. Maybe this was a message? “I have an idea, Cecil. But I’m going to need something from the armory.”

Cecil went inside to get dressed, and Carlos, after fussing with the viola for a while, lay back on Cecil's couch, wondering if his plan had any prayer of working.

 

Carlos blinked awake back in at his family's residence in Strathlachlan. He was lying on a couch in his father's library, a striped tabby nibbling at his ear. 

“Hey,” he said, shooing away the cat. He sat up, and the book that had been resting on his lap slid to the floor. He leaned over and picked it up. Oddly enough, it was not in English. Instead, it was written in some strange runes.

“What the blazes was I reading?” he asked. The cat sat up on the arm of the couch, grinning at him. 

And then the music began to play, in a room somewhere nearby.

_“What do you do with a sleeping Elder_  
 _What do you do with a sleeping Elder_  
 _What do you do with an abomination_  
 _When stars are align-ed?_

_Sacrifice a virgin 'till he's sated_  
 _Offer a virgin until he's sated_  
 _Give him a virgin until he's sated_  
 _That will make him happy!_

_What do you do if he's sort of racist_  
 _What do you do if he's sort of racist_  
 _How do you cope if he's problematic_  
 _When you write his story?_

_Write up your cast so it's more inclusive_  
 _Call out actions that are exclusive_  
 _Offer an array of teaching moments_  
 _When you are a writin'._

_What do you do if you still feel icky_  
 _Taking a shower but still feel sticky_  
 _When your sources appear too sqicky_  
 _When you the typewriter keys a clicky_  
 _When you write your story_

The cat screeched, and the music abruptly stopped. Carlos felt a paw batting at his face again.

“Khoshekh?” asked Carlos. He sat up, but the cat leapt away, knocking over the timepiece on the mantelpiece. It toppled over, and hit Carlos in the head.

 

Carlos moaned. He sat up, rubbing his head, stretching his limbs. He didn’t recall falling asleep, though he did remember having a very strange dream.

Suddenly, a shock of fear ran through him. He stared around at the high bookshelves. 

He was inside the library.

Getting quickly to his feet, Carlos tried desperately to shake off the disorientation. Cecil and Josie had warned him about this, but it didn’t make it any less strange. He glanced around to make certain he had brought along his items and was grateful to see that they were nearby. He gathered up everything and, being as quiet as he could muster, went to seek out a relatively open area.

The library was lit, as was all of Nightlantis, with the strange artificial lights, but there weren’t a lot of fixtures inside, so it was exceedingly dim, and shadows fell everywhere. He wondered if the Nighlantis librarians were even sensitive to light. Perhaps they sensed his presence already, and were merely toying with him?

Carlos swallowed his fear and tried to find his way out of the stacks, pausing at the end of each seemingly endless high shelf to look around for his antagonist. He wondered what had become of Hiram McDaniels, and whether the dragon was in here, somewhere, as well? McDaniels certainly caused a commotion wherever he went, but this structure looked vast from the outside, and, given the sometimes odd geometry of the place, there was no telling how vast it really was on the inside. He seemed to be in the middle of the biography section right now. He glanced at some book spines, pulling one of them out and flipping through it. He had no idea who Helen Hunt was, but she seemed to have many, many books written about her. Some local celebrity?

Carlos paused, gathering his things close to him. He could have sworn he heard, far off, a faint scratching or scraping sound, like a cat clawing at a piece of furniture. He smiled, thinking back to his mother scolding the family pets for just an offense, and then wondered if perhaps Khoshekh had happened to be in here somewhere. The thought, somehow, cheered him. 

He turned again, but saw no way out of the maze of high bookshelves. He glanced at the book spines, and realized that he was still in the biography section, except now the shelves were filled with books about someone named Sean Penn. This was not going to work for his plan: he needed a more open area. He glanced up and decided to attempt a climb up to the top to see his way clear. 

As the scratching sound continued, he set down his burdens and began to climb, remembering when he and his brother had pulled off such stunts as boys. Their last foray had ended badly when his brother had pulled down an entire bookshelf, scattering first editions and breaking one of Mother’s vases. And somehow, of course, Rafael was almost instantly forgiven. 

A book near his foot tilted over, and Carlos managed to keep it from falling by toeing it with his boot. He needed to pay attention. He glanced down over his shoulder and saw he was about halfway up the tall bookshelf. At least, he mused, it wasn’t cracking under his weight, the way the tree had been. He listened for a moment: he still heard the rough scratching from about the same direction.

He carefully made his way to the top shelf, and then poked his head over the top.

He immediately ducked back down. He’d seen the source of the scratching sound: over across the stacks, out in an open area, there was a huge monster. It looked somewhat like a winged lion. Was this the librarian? Carlos peeked at the creature again. It didn’t notice him, but seemed completely wrapped up in scratching at one of the couches set out for patrons to sit and read. The area was mostly clear, but for about a half dozen wide pillars that spanned from the floor up to the high ceiling. _Perfect_ , he thought.

Carefully, he memorized his course to get out of the stacks, and then, as quietly as he could, descended back to the floor. He gathered his bags and ventured through the stacks, heading towards the monster, pausing at the last turn, before he would expose himself.

He hunkered down and opened a case, drawing out his viola. He had decided to essay a difficult piece, Berlioz’s _Harold en Italie_ , as he lacked a companion, and it included a significant solo part for viola. He hadn’t any sheet music, so was hoping that his recollection would suffice. He had played the first part, _Harold aux montagnes_ , for Cecil, but his friend seemed wary of the number for reasons Carlos couldn’t understand. (Cecil claimed he didn’t actually believe in mountains, despite, as Carlos had tried to convey, living his entire life inside one.)

Carlos steeled himself and, viola poised under his chin, rounded the corner of the bookshelf so he was now in full view of the creature, which appeared to be batting at the tasseled doily that was draped over the back of the now somewhat despoiled couch. He squared his jaw, and began to play, which drew the immediate attention of the monster. It jerked around, a pair of slitted emerald green eyes now fixed on Carlos as he drew bow over strings. 

He tried to quiet his beating heart as the beast first reared up, opening its cruel jaws, spreading out its terrible wings. Unlike Hiram McDaniels, who sported leathery, bat-like wings, this creature had wings like that of an eagle of other bird of prey, albeit in giant size. 

He noticed something else: one of its front paws, which was furry but sported an eagle’s talons, clutched at a large, old book. Perhaps this really was a librarian after all? Carlos wondered as he played whether it was a biography of Helen Hunt or Sean Penn, as so far these were the only books he had seen in the vast holdings.

Was its breathing getting more and more shallow? It seemed so. The wings had folded down as he played, and, as if it were being lulled to sleep, it stretched out, making a hash of the carpet with its long talons. 

Careful not to lose his place in the piece, Carlos stepped back a few paces, and the creature ambled along towards him, finally stopping right in front of one of the great pillars. He stood still, and continued playing. It yawned and smacked, and then curled up on the floor, its eyes blinking. 

Just a few measures more, thought Carlos, as the beast’s breaths became more shallow, and its eyes fluttered closed. He thought he heard a soft snore.

He dropped the violin and dove for his bag. 

In an instant, the beast blinked awake and reared up, roaring, wings spread wide, agitated at the cessation of the music. It reared back to pounce.

Carlos drew back his bow, and loosed an arrow. But his intent was not to kill. The beast screamed as an arrow pierced one broad wing and slammed into the pillar behind it, pinning it behind. It flapped and screamed and squawked in protest, but it was caught, like a butterfly on a pin.

Carlos lowered the bow, breathing hard. “I believe I now get my questions answered.”

The creature sighed, and, sensing it was trapped, slipped down, its back against the pillar. As it sagged, it appeared to shrink, until it was not a winged lion, but merely a man, Carlos’s arrow piercing not its wing, but a piece of his shirt.

“Go ahead,” the man sighed.

“You don’t seem like an Old One.”

“What?” he asked. “No! And I’m not a griffin either. I just came in here to check out a book. The door was open, so I decided to take a look around. I mean, I paid enough taxes on this stupid library, I thought I might as well get some use out of it!”

Carlos hunkered down so he was at eye level. “I’m Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan. Carlos.”

“I am, or I was, Mr. Stephen Carlsberg,” sighed the librarian. “You can call me Steve. I came in to check out a book.”

“That book?” asked Carlos, pointing to the one he was clutching.

“No! I wanted to get a biography of Helen Hunt. But the guy gave me this book, and I was stuck! Really annoying, how much government services have declined, don’t you think?”

“I have a hunch I might know how to get you un-stuck,” said Carlos. “But first, I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Ask away! I don’t know if I’ll have the answer,” muttered Steve, who started scratching at the carpet with his free hand.

“All right, first question, what will happen to Cecil when this contest is done?”

Steve suddenly got a strange look to him, as if he’d had one drink too many with dinner. The book clutched in his hands sprung open, and he began to read in what sounded like a disembodied voice. “Cecil will be the sacrifice. A sacrifice must be made. The Old One lies sleeping beneath the mountain.”

“Is there any way….” Carlos trailed off, choosing his words. “Is there any way to avoid this? Can there be another sacrifice?”

The book, of its own accord, began to turn pages. “There must be a sacrifice,” intoned Steve. 

“But it doesn’t have to be Cecil?”

“There must be a sacrifice.”

“How do you get to be a sacrifice?”

Steve paused. The book’s pages ruffled. He began to read again. “They must come into the room willingly.” And then the book slammed shut. 

Carlos crept over towards Steve, who still seemed out of it. Being careful not to touch it, he peered at the book cover. This book was not written in English, and said nothing regarding Helen Hunt or Sean Penn: instead, was the weird hieroglyphics he had seen around Nightlantis.

“That book is from the Old Ones,” Carlos mused.

“Huh?” said Steve. He seemed to be as one coming out of a dream. “Pardon me?”

“Oh,” said Carlos. “Excuse me! I need to check out a book in order to complete my task.”

“Could I please be released?” asked Steve. “I can’t get to the desk with an arrow stuck through me like this.”

“If I do, will you promise not to misbehave? And please take care of the furniture!”

“But I like to scratch. My claws get so dull.”

Carlos sighed. “We’ll try to get you a good scratching post. In the meantime, can you recommend a good book?”

“We have many captivating biographies of-“

“Something that does not involve Miss Hunt or Mr. Penn?”

Steve frowned.

 

“I find Mr. Penn to be very inspiring, Carlos. Do you know he saved several people from drowning?”

“Hrm?” said Carlos. He had sitting at the table trying to read his book, but, as his mind had drifted, had actually spent the last few moments watching Babbage cart out a few of Cecil’s rugs to take to the library for a new scratching post for the librarian. 

Cecil got up from the couch, to stand next to Carlos. “Oh, no, Babbage, not that one!” He strode over to the mechanical man to rescue a really hideous purple area rug. With a huff of frustration, Babbage did an about-face and tromped back to the store room.

“Does anyone know what’s become of Hiram McDaniels?” Carlos asked.

“Mmm, very little. It was known that he was taken in after you had returned. But as you know, it’s difficult to see into the library.

Carlos nodded. After completing his check out, he had apparently lost consciousness, and the next thing he remembered was waking up on a very thrilled Cecil’s couch, together with his viola, his bow and quiver, and several biographies of Sean Penn.

And he also now had a history of Nightlantis, only it was not written in English, but in the strange language of the Old Ones. So the translation had been slow, as he was really not entirely certain what he was looking for. But what he had seen already was exceedingly worrying.

“I wonder if Mr. Carlsberg transformed back into a griffin before Mr. McDaniels entered the space?” said Carlos.

“Mr. Carlsberg sounds intensely irritating,” huffed Cecil.

“Oh, he's fine, when he's in his human form, really,” said Carlos, but Cecil thumped back on the couch and went back to his biography.

“I prefer to choose Mr. Penn as my role model from here on,” sniffed Cecil.

Carlos rubbed his eyes and went to sit down next to Cecil. “Cecil, I need to figure out what we're to do after the ceremony. From what I've gathered so far from my reading, Nightlantis surfaces once every two hundred years.” 

“Give or take,” said Cecil. “As I've said, time works differently here.”

“At that point, the Old Ones require a sacrifice. If there isn't a sacrifice, Nightlantis will not just sink back under the ocean: it will be destroyed!”

“Well, yes, there is that,” said Cecil, still poring over his book. “Any idea who Mr. Hugo Chavez is? He's referred to often.”

Carlos put out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder. “Cecil, _you_ are currently the sacrifice.”

Cecil looked down. “Well, yes, there's that.”

Carlos frowned. “Wait. You knew this?”

Cecil sighed and set down his book. “I've been raised as the sacrifice. It's my fate.” He glanced up at Carlos. “But, it's been all right, really. I didn't expect to fall in love. That was neat.” He smiled, and reached out to brush Carlos's cheek with his fingertips. He shrugged. “And the sexual intercourse was nice as well.”

“Cecil,” Carlos whispered. “We just met! I don't want to lose you.”

“Well, you were going back, regardless. You know, when the portal opens.”

“But I thought-” There was a great rumbling outside. “That came from the direction of the library!” said Carlos. He dashed out the door, Cecil following behind him, and Babbage tromping along behind.

There was a great clamor arising from the library, and a small crowd had gathered outside. There was clanging and bashing and shouting and banging and there were flames shooting out of some of the ducts on the roof.

“Is it McDaniels?” Carlos asked. He looked around and saw that some citizens were exchanging money: they were obviously betting on the outcome. Miss Hidge arrived, accompanied by her assistants, and then the City Council came as well, all flush-faced.

There was a cacophonous roar, and suddenly, one wall of the library erupted into flames. The crowd edged back, as some of the people standing too close had gotten slightly singed. There were roars and squalls from inside, and then, with a crash, part of the side of the building fell down. 

There was a silence for a moment, as the dust settled and the ruins smoldered.

And then there was a single figure, visible through the smoke and haze.

Mr. Stephen Carlsberg, still clutching his book very tightly to his chest, emerged, picking his teeth with a toothpick. 

He rubbed his belly, which seemed a bit swollen, and emitted a loud, very rude burp.

“Tastes like chicken,” he said aloud.

“Rude!” whispered Cecil.

A soft cry went up amid the crowd. “Where is Mr. McDaniels?” asked Carlos.

“Hello, Dr. MacLachlan!” said the librarian, who was still standing just inside the library as, one supposed, he was forbidden by whatever spell bound him to leave the premises. “Mr. McDaniels is currently making a circuit of my digestive tract. I think the green head is probably in the duodenum by now.”

“Citizens!” shouted Miss Hidge. “I believe I can make an announcement. I believe that the winner of this contest is-”

But suddenly she was knocked off her feet by another trembling. More bits of the library fell. 

The pavement beneath their feet cracked. The crowd once again screamed and scattered as the fissures grew wider and wider.

“Is this an earthquake?” asked Carlos. “Is the island sinking again?”

“It's not time yet!” said Josie, who had arrived, along with her angels. “The stars are not yet in alignment. It must be something else.”

The _something_ appeared to be rising from the depths of Nightlantis. Slowly, it cracked through the pavement and began to take shape. It was a large structure, not as large as the library, but quite substantial. But unlike the library, this building had windows and doors. 

There was now a figure visible through one of the windows. A very naked figure.

At last, the shaking stopped, and the building came to rest. The crowd gathered around as Marcus Vansten emerged from the new structure, his mechanical men behind him, holding a stack of books. 

“Behold the new Nightlantis Library! It was built by me, expressly for me, because I am quite rich. And as you see I have completed the task of checking out not one, but several books.”

“Vansten,” said Carlos. “That can't be in the rules. You can't build a library just for yourself!”

“There is nothing in the rules that says I can't.”

Miss Hidge was conferring with the City Council, who were rifling nervously. At length, she turned. “We cannot find any violation by Mr. Vansten. As he says, there is no rule that expressly forbids constructing your own library for the purposes of this task.”

There were moans and groans from the crowd. As well as the exchange of a great deal of cash.

“However, I have to state, Mr. Vansten, you also failed at the second task, hunting a snark.”

Vansten stepped forward. “I have evidence,” he announced, “that Dr. MacLachlan is not eligible for this contest. He is already affianced!” One of his mechanical men clomped forward, and brought out a coat. Vansten reached into the jacket pocket and retrieved a much-folded letter.

“You- You're the one! You stole my coat!” shouted Carlos.

“No, of course not. I had my sentinels do it,” said Vansten.

Carlos was about to reply in a most intemperate manner, but felt a cool hand on his arm. “Carlos,” said Cecil, his voice quavering, “is this true?”

Carlos bit his lip. “Vansten, have you actually read the letter?”

Vansten shook his head. “I don’t need to read. I’m-“

“Yes, I know, you’re really rich.” Carlos turned to Cecil. “Read the letter, Cecil. Please,” he said.

Looking uncertain, Cecil reached out to grab the letter, which Vansten would have plucked away, had Babbage not grabbed it from him.

As they all stood around the new library steps, Cecil cleared his throat and began to read.

_“My dearest Carlos,_

_I pray as always this missive finds you in good health. Please know that whatever our circumstances, I honestly hope and pray for your safe journey, and eventual return to your family and loved ones._

_I fear I do not know how to properly express what is contained in this letter, and you will please excuse my poor skill at writing. My sisters often make fun of me for not paying attention in class. I wish now that I had gleaned more from my English composition, although pleasant words perhaps will not make the meaning within less hard to endure._

_Dear and faithful Carlos, it is with a heavy heart that I must report to you, soon after you departed, I began to pay visits to Strathlachlan, where your parents have been most welcoming. While I passed the time there, I had occasion to reacquaint myself with your brother, Rafael. Although our former acquaintanceship had led to many a misunderstanding, I believe that now your brother sees the former error of his ways, and so he was able to express freely to me the genuine longing of his heart._

_The conclusion of this is that, before long, we realized that we still harbored a great deal of affection for one another. And that, even though I had been promised to you, it would not be honest of me to venture into a sacred compact such as one of marriage when in truth my heart now belongs to another._

_As of the time I put pen to paper, I have been wed to your brother for a fortnight….”_

As a gasp went up from those gathered around, Cecil abruptly stopped reading, his eyes welling up. Carlos nodded, and, his voice husky, Cecil continued.

_As of the time I put pen to paper, I have been wed to your brother for a fortnight. We eloped, and escaped to London, where your uncle lives, and have been making a home down there. Your father has not reacted well to this, and has disinherited Rafael. I hope that in time, you can find it in your heart to forgive us, and to forgive your brother, and I implore you to help and mend this rift that has grown between Rafael and your father._

_I remain, ever, your correspondent_

_Mrs. Rafael MacLachlan (Temperance)_

“My parents insisted on the marriage,” Carlos explained. “It was the worst thing that has ever happened in my life, and broke my heart. I received that letter some weeks ago, at our last port of call. I have re-read it every day since. That’s why it was in my coat pocket. I thought my heart would ever bear the wound, until I met you, Cecil.”

There were quite a lot of adoring “Awwww’s” cooed by especially the female members of the crowd.

Cecil ran to Carlos, and they embraced.

The City Council shuffled, and came up King of hearts, Queen of Hearts, Ace of Hearts.

“I think we can declare a winner,” said Miss Hidge.

“You can do no such thing!” yelled Vansten. “I'm still very, very rich!”

“But, you're not actually the wealthiest person in Nightlantis,” said Carlos.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Carlos pointed to Mr. Carlsberg, who was still standing in the ruined wall of the old library. “You see that book Mr. Carlsberg is holding? It's not only expensive, it is, in fact, priceless.”

“Priceless?” asked Vansten, who started to get a faraway look in his piggish eyes.

“It is the only copy in all of Nightlantis. It is the only copy in all the world.”

“That can't be! If it's expensive, then it is by rights, mine.”

“It's true, Carlos,” said Cecil. “Mr. Vansten is very rich, and therefore, a great guy.”

“No,” said Carlos, “I'm afraid that book is in the hands of the public librarian, so it therefore belongs to the public.”

“No more!” shouted Vansten. “Sentinels!” he yelled. His mechanical men went up and surrounded Carlsberg, who didn't really seem terribly perturbed. “Give me that book!” he demanded.

Carlsberg grinned, gave another, smaller burp, and shoved the book into Vansten's hands. 

Vansten let out a shriek. There was a howl of wind, and he and his mechanical men were suddenly sucked into the old library. And then, with a glow of light, the wall of the library repaired itself, until it was once again sealed tight.

Carlsberg, who was standing outside rubbing his stomach, said, “I have a bit of a digestive upset. Does anyone have some soda water?”

“I believe we can now finally declared a winner!” said Miss Hidge before the dust had even settled. “Oh, look, here is the mayor herself!”

With the faint scent of olives, there was suddenly a woman standing amidst them, dressed in an elaborate gown. She held a scepter topped by a heart, and her ornate crown contained several heart-shaped jewels. 

“Your Honor,” said Miss Hidge, curtseying before her. The City Council formed up behind her in neat rows, as if setting up for a game of Canfield Solitaire. Those wearing the suit of hearts were all arrayed at the front.

“That's actually not a very good hand,” Carlos commented.

Mayor Winchell pointed her heart scepter at Carlsberg. “Off with his head!” she declared.

“What?” protested Carlsberg, as several of the club-suited City Council members surrounded him. “I only asked for a seltzer water!”

“Stop right there!” protested Carlos, despite Cecil attempting to hold him back. “This man has done nothing wrong.”

“Who are you?” sniffed Mayor Winchell.

“I am Dr. Carlos Gutierrez MacLachlan, and I am the winner of Prince Cecil's hand!”

“Prince Cecil?” asked Mayor Winchell. “Married? When did this happen?”

“Possibly while you were afire. Or perhaps when you were transubstantiating into wine,” sighed Miss Hidge. To be honest, her job as the mayor's assistant must have been a trial.

Just then, as if things needed to be even more complicated, a shot rang out. Nightlantis citizens dove for cover. 

Carlos peered at the mayor who had fallen beside him. Her gown was now soaked in blood. He crawled over to her to check her. “The mayor is dead!” he declared. 

“Are you sure she's not just changing forms again?” sighed Miss Hidge.

Carlos shook his head. “No, she's really dead.” But suddenly the mayor transformed into a scarab beetle, which skittered off.

“See?” said Miss Hidge.

“Savage Negroes,” came a cry.

Carlos looked over to where a crazed Thurston was now holding a gun on Cecil. 

“Oh, not you again!” Cecil told Thurston.

“Cecil, be careful!” called Carlos. “He's a murderer!”

Thurston grabbed Cecil by the hair and, pulling him along, ran into Vansten's library building.

“Cecil!” shouted Carlos. Heedless to the danger, he ran into the library building after Cecil. He was just in time to see Wilcox and his hostage disappear down a staircase towards Nightlantis's lower levels. 

But just at that moment, the earth beneath him trembled terribly, and he was thrown to the floor. He heard a rumble, and covered his head just as part of the ceiling collapsed.

The tremor ceased and Carlos leapt to his feet. But rubble now blocked the staircase leading downwards.

He rushed back out of Vansten's library building. “I lost Thurston! What was that shaking?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Josie, who was still standing nearby with her angels, “the island has started sinking.”

“What?” asked Carlos. “I thought the stars weren't in alignment yet.”

Josie looked at her angels, who hummed in agreement. “Not back when you last asked, but they are now.”

“But it's only been five minutes!” Carlos protested.

Josie shrugged. “The Old Ones require their sacrifice. Otherwise, Nightlantis will be destroyed.”

Carlos's mind raced. “And Cecil is the sacrifice.”

“Yes. They tend to be rather picky about things like that.” 

“So we need to get him back....”

Josie nodded, and her angels ruffled their feathers. “Yes, we need to bring Prince Cecil back alive. So we can sacrifice him.”

Carlos looked around. It seemed everyone in the crowd was no staring at him. “You know, your town can sometimes get quite irritating!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on chapter 5: Just one more chapter to go! I guess we'll have to rescue Cecil, won't we? And I have a little epilogue. Since people seem to like epilogues.


	6. Chapter 6

Carlos had borrowed a pair of hounds from the hooded figures once again. Although progress had been agonizingly slow, with Babbage's help he had managed to clear away the debris from the staircase inside Vansten's library. And so at last he ventured down towards the lower levels of Nightlantis, intent on picking up on Thurston's trail. 

The ground shook intermittently as the island prepared to once again sink beneath the waves, the tremors growing more violent, and more frequent. 

Worst of all, Carlos was aware that his seven days would be up in mere hours, meaning the portal would reopen, and he would have his only chance of getting home.

He was now down far enough on the lower levels that it had grown uncomfortably hot. He had discarded Cecil's borrowed jacket, hoping that he could soon apologize for the slight, shouldered his pack, and continued on downwards, face now dripping with perspiration. Down on these lower levels was yet more machinery, but it was stilled. It had a strange symmetry to it: god knows what it was all for, or who had built it. It looked like it hadn't been used in ages, and was covered with layers of rust.

Unfortunately, when he had gotten innumerable levels down, the trail suddenly ran cold. The hounds whined, but ran around in circles. 

Carlos he felt the familiar odd prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He stood with the dogs on a leash. “Please, I need your help,” he said. 

Tamika stepped forward from the shadows, wearing her mismatched clothes. The redheaded boy, Barton, was beside her. They stopped a short distance from Carlos. There were many other children arrayed around him now. 

“You helped me before,” Carlos pleaded. “Before I went to confront the librarian.”

Tamika and Barton exchanged a skeptical glance. “That's right. We hate those stupid librarians. But why should we help you again?” Tamika asked.

“Because I need to rescue Prince Cecil.”

Tamkia and Barton burst into giggles and nudged each other, which further tried Carlos's rapidly thinning patience. “Oh, what is it?” he demanded.

“Why? Because you _looooooove_ him?” Tamika taunted.

“Ewwwww!” chimed in Barton.

As the ground trembled once again, Carlos shook his head in frustration. “We share a mutual affection, yes. And what's wrong with that?”

“Mushy!” called Barton.

“Well, I am sorry that romantic feelings are considered to be 'mushy' in your world view. But the fact remains, if we do not rescue Cecil from Thurston, your entire island may be destroyed!”

“Thurston?” asked Tamika, her dark eyes narrowing in derision. “He's a real jerk.”

“He's a jerk,” agreed Barton.

“Although I would fain call attention to others's weaknesses,” said Carlos. “Yes. He is … a real _jerk_.”

“Give us a minute,” said Tamika. She signaled, and several children gathered around for a whispered conversation. After a frustrating moment, they turned back to face Carlos. “All right. We'll escort you down to the lower levels. That's where … _they_ are sleeping. We think that's where he must've taken your _boyfriend_.” The children burst into more giggles as Carlos rolled his eyes.

“He is your boyfriend, right?” asked Barton.

“Yes, Cecil is my boyfriend.”

“Did you kiss him?” asked another child.

Carlos was going to tell them exactly why it was none of their business, but decided to keep his temper for the moment. “Yes, we have kissed.”

“On the lips?”

“Yes.”

There was a hearty round of children groaning, “Ewwwwww!” 

It was true: Nightlantis tried his patience. “Can we perhaps get going?” sighed Carlos.

“This way,” said Tamika, and they all headed off down the corridor.

Carlos noticed the little girl who had asked about the kiss was walking beside him. “Can I pet your puppies?”

“You may,” said Carlos. She carefully touched the head of one of the hounds, and it gratefully licked her hand. She sprang back, looking at her hand. 

“It's fine,” said Carlos, reaching down to scratch the dog behind the ears as the girl stared in wonder. He handed off the leash to her, and, after only a brief hesitation, she grabbed it in her little hand and trundled on ahead. 

They ventured down a couple of dark staircases, and zigged through some dim corridors, and finally all the children stopped where the light suddenly grew brighter and everything opened up. They stood along a very extended railing.

Carlos ventured up to the rail and peered over. He gasped at what he saw and stepped back. And then, more carefully this time, he approached the railing. 

They had somehow come out on the bottom of Nightlantis. Evidently, the city was symmetrical: just as it was bounded by a conical volcano above, so the very bottom consisted of a deep valley shaped roughly like an ice cream cone. He glanced up, and could see above them the many scattered structures that made up the underside of Nightlantis.

“How do we descend from here?” asked Carlos who looked around in vain for some sort of passageway.

“We fly down,” said Tamika, and indeed, some of the children had run to grab some very odd equipment which was stored around the rim. The contraptions were prodigious, and Carlos, despite his worry, was intrigued by their design. They contained a single seat, a small engine, and above that, something that looked like a very large, ribbed parasol. The ribs on the parasol were actually long, thin blades, and when the steam-powered motor was engaged, they whirled around. He watched in awe as Tamkia strapped herself into a seat and took off in the thing, hovering like a blown dandelion. And then she rose up and very slowly began to drift down into the conical valley.

Barton pushed Carlos impatiently into a seat. “But, I don't know how to pilot this machine!” said Carlos. “It's all right, it will take two,” Barton told him. He strapped in Carlos and then hopped up to stand on the seat in back of him, and, with no further ado, they were aloft.

Carlos gasped when they cleared the rail, as the bottom looked so very far down, but he tried to keep his head. The little craft drifted slowly downwards. “So,” said Barton, “what do you think?”

“This is remarkable. Do you think Cecil is being held at the bottom then?”

Carlos couldn't see Barton above him, but he could imagine the boy scrunching up his face to think. “That's our guess. We had one of these 'copters stolen. We imagine it was that jerk, Thurston.”

“It was stolen just now?” asked Carlos.

“No. Several days back. We think he's been going up and down. Don't know why.”

Carlos nodded. That was passing strange, especially if, as everyone said, there was no one below but the Old Ones.

“Hey,” said Barton. “So, you _like_ Cecil?”

Carlos sighed, hoping this would not eventuate another round of teasing. “Yes, I like him.”

Above him, Barton was quiet for a moment, as if thinking very hard upon a problem. “Uh, so, how did you tell him?”

“I'm sorry? How did I tell him?”

Barton paused, as if screwing up his courage. “Yeah, if there's a person you like, I mean, _like_ like, and you don't know if they like you, and you wanna tell them you like them, how do you tell them you like them?”

Carlos grinned. “Well, I've found it's advisable to just come out and confess your feelings.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes.”

“But, what if the person doesn't like you back?”

Carlos had to smile. Barton sounded in earnest. “If the person does not share your affections, then the gentlemanly thing to do is to retreat at once. And then you may pursue instead an interaction with someone who, one must hope, shares your feelings.”

Barton fell silent again, so there was no sound other than the whirling blades of the copter.

“Is there anyone particular you have in mind?” Carlos prodded.

“No!” insisted Barton. “Of course not. I'm just, you know, askin'.”

Carlos grinned, and soon after, they landed down on a circular rock ledge that was apparently the lowest rim of the valley. There was no railing here. Having unstrapped himself from the 'copter seat, Carlos ventured to the edge and leaned over to gaze beneath him: the circular space down in the center was dark, going to pitch black. “What lies down in the pit?”

“Where the Old Ones live, I 'spect,” said Barton. “Though I've no idea why they like it so cursed dark down there.”

“Maybe they're light sleepers?” ventured Carlos. He looked around. The valley here was not nearly as smooth as it had appeared from far above: caves and rock outcroppings pockmarked the valley walls, all perfect places to conceal someone. 

“I think I saw where they got your boyfriend,” whispered Tamika, pointing straight across the circumference of the ledge. Carlos squinted across the abyss. Yes, he could dimly see a figure over on the other side. 

“I'll go,” he said. “You two stay put!”

“We'll be fine!” Tamika told him.

“I need you to stand by these copters when we're trying to leave.” Carlos left and carefully made his way around the ledge.

He came upon a very odd sight: it was a large clock sitting on the rim, ticking away. He wondered idly if he took it apart whether it would have nothing inside, like the other clocks in Nightlantis. The clock had a bell on the top. Carlos wondered what it was for, and whether it might be a tolling clock.

He got his answer sooner than expected, as the minute hand reached the hour and the bell suddenly began clanging. Frantically, Carlos jumped out of sight behind some rocks. The bell kept ringing and ringing. And then, to his astonishment, a large, green tentacle poked out over the ledge. It felt around, and then, finally finding the clock, gave it a whack. 

The bell ceased ringing.

The tentacle disappeared.

Carlos began to breathe again. He peered from behind the rock, but saw no more sign of the tentacle, nor the creature it presumably attached to.

He carefully made his way along the rim, and, with no further misadventures, and at length came to the place Tamika had spotted. He saw a flash of silver hair, and knew he'd come upon Cecil.

“Hold still,” he whispered as he ran to where Cecil had been chained up. “I'm here! I'm here. Are you all right?” Carlos reached out a hand and brushed his fingers on Cecil's face.

Cecil puffed air and blew some hair out of his face. “Oh, I'm fine. Other than the bad cliché of being chained up. How perfectly embarrassing!”

“You'll be fine,” shushed Carlos, plucking a bobby pin from Cecil's hair.

“We don't have time for that now, my love!” said Cecil.

“Excuse me?” said Carlos. “Uh, no, I need this,” he explained. “Are you certain you're all right? He didn't … harm you in any way?”

Cecil nodded. “I told Mr. Thurston that he lacks a villain's imagination. And then I requested some torture....”

“What?” asked Carlos. He was using the bobby to pick the locks of the metal clasps that held Cecil's wrists. “You _requested_ torture?”

“Well, just a little.” Carlos stood blinking for a moment, but Cecil kept up his recitation. “But he just kept up muttering about inferior races and the like. He's very tiresome as an antagonist.”

Carlos shook his head and finished freeing Cecil's right wrist. “We'll get you out of here. I have some transport standing by.”

“I didn't know naturalists could open locks with a hair ornament.”

“My brother taught me this, actually. He's a bit of a bounder, but he has his uses.” There was a click, and Cecil was freed. He immediately (and somewhat dramatically) fell into Carlos's arms. 

Carlos thought that they didn't really have time for drama, but then decided that it would only take a few seconds to give Cecil a nice kiss. (Although, in the back of his mind, he could already hear Tamika and Barton yelling “Ewww!”) 

But the clench was soon interrupted by a gunshot. Carlos hit the floor, dragging Cecil down with him. “How much ammunition did that idiot bring along!” Carlos cursed.

“He might be setting the gun back to yesterday, when his armory was full,” said Cecil. Carlos frowned at him. “I told you time here is weird,” Cecil added with an apologetic shrug.

“We need to make our way back around the rim!” said Carlos. The ground shook again, and there was a loud boom. Carlos threw himself over Cecil. When at last the shaking stopped, he looked back up, he realized that there was now an avalanche blocking the way he'd come. “Damn!” he said. “Now the only way back is by Thurston!” As if in answer, another shot fired over their heads.

“No, there's another way,” said Cecil, wriggling out from beneath him. “But you have to trust me. Come on!” And with that, Cecil ran out to the edge of the rim and jumped off, disappearing into the blackness below.

“Cecil!” cried Carlos. Another shot came over his head. He ran after Cecil and, pausing a moment, closed his eyes and jumped.

He made a soft landing almost instantly. Oddly enough, it was now dimly lit down here. The ground below him was passing strange. It seemed to be a carpet of soft moss, but when Carlos moved, it rippled, as if there were a body of water just underneath. Despite his dire circumstances, Carlos's scientific curiosity was aroused, and he spent a little bit of time bouncing up and down in order to visualize the intriguing wave patterns.

Then Cecil was there, slapping a hand over Carlos's mouth. Cecil held a finger to his lips for silence. And then he gestured out across the cavern. There appeared to be something living there: Carlos's impression was a mass of enormous tentacles, all tangled up. 

“The Old Ones lie sleeping here,” said Cecil, and Carlos realized whatever it is was faintly snoring. “Well, at least one of them. It’s a little hard to tell: all those tentacles.”

“This isn't very deep at all,” said Carlos. “It looked infinite from above. How did you know?”

Cecil shook his head. “I told you the Old Ones were rubbish at engineering. Also, I saw it wake up to punch its alarm clock.”

“Oh, was that what it was?” Carlos remembered the clock with the bell on top he'd seen the tentacle swipe at.

“Yes, fortunately, they're late risers. Lazy sods, if you ask me. Now, we need to make our way to the other side without disturbing it.”

Carlos poked at the ground one more time with his foot, sending out another ripple of waves. “There's water underneath,” Cecil explained. 

“How remarkable!” whispered Carlos.

“Some toff sort of bed.” Cecil shrugged, unimpressed. “Now follow me!” Carlos nodded as Cecil crept along, keeping towards the side of what he guessed was the creature’s bedchamber. Carlos smiled, marveling at Cecil's bravery and resourcefulness. Perhaps the children were right to moan and groan over their mutual affection? Carlos had to admit to himself, even though he had only known the man a few days, he was rather smitten.

As Carlos's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed other features of the chamber. There were theatrical placards hung up on the walls, for example. As Carlos had never been a theater aficionado, he didn't recognize the titles. One advertised a show called _Qunisniket Park_ , and another, _Regner Lodbrog's Epicedium_. 

They also had to make their way around various items of furnishings. Carlos looked up at what he took to be the creature's kitchen. There were a number of oversized pots and pans all stacked up, as well as some kitchen knives big as swords. It was also stacked with books and periodicals. Carlos looked at one of the spines. The title was in the strange language of the Old Ones, but Carlos now had enough practice he could translate it: _To Serve Man_. 

They made their way around the huge table, and were about halfway around the circumference of the room when they heard the shot. Fortunately, it missed Cecil and Carlos, but hit the floor of the chamber, and the result was a gusher of water, as if someone had knocked over a fire hydrant.

The creature abruptly ceased snoring, and suddenly, the tentacles began to writhe.

“Cecil, run!” said Carlos. He grabbed one of the oversized knives. “I'll hold him off!”

“You can't hold off a gun with a knife!” said Cecil, who stayed stubbornly put. “Don't be preposterous!”

“Cecil, I throw knives,” Carlos hissed.

Cecil paused for a moment staring in wonder. “Really?”

“Yes, that's how a killed a pirate! Aboard the _Vigilant_!”

Cecil gaped in a rather rude but endearing manner. “Carlos, I cannot begin to describe how terribly attractive that is!”

They stared dumbly at each other for a long moment, but another shot rang out. “Cecil! There’s no time for this. Go get cover!” Carlos ordered.

To Carlos's intense relief, Cecil scampered away. Carlos stood, gripping the knife, and tried to watch both the slumbering Old One (which, oddly enough with all the commotion, seemed to be drowsing once again) and Thurston, wherever he was. Also, as the surface of the bed was still leaking, and he was now shin-high in a rapidly rising tide of water.

The villain appeared just then, gripping his rifle, which was pointed at Carlos. “Stop right there,” Carlos threatened, hoisting the knife, and immediately realizing what a foolish defense this would be.

“Where is it?” demanded Thurston. “Where is the sacrifice?”

“Is that it?” asked Carlos. “You're helping the Old Ones now?” He wasn't really certain how he was going to get out of this one, so he decided to delay Thurston as best he could. He had read a lot of novels, and knew villains needed to explain themselves in the last chapter.

Thurston glared at him. “Only one Elder God. This abomination!” He pointed to where the creature snoozed nearby.

“You consider this creature an abomination, yet you evidently esteem him over Cecil?”

Thurston looked as if he would spit. “That savage is less that human.”

“You attempted to assassinate the mayor. What does that make _you_?”

“Some races are simply not as highly adapted,” Thurston averred primly.

Despite his current predicament. Carlos was offended, both for himself and for the scientific community at large. “Oh, do not use Mr. Darwin's theories this way! He would be appalled at the likes of you.”

“What do you know of it?”

“I am Mr. Darwin's correspondent of many years running!” Carlos crisply informed him.

“Really?” asked Thurston, who seemed a little crestfallen. To Carlo’s astonishment, he lowered his weapon, and approached Carlos. “I can't seem to get him to answer my letters. What do you think I'm doing wrong?”

“You're out of your mind, for one thing!” came a call from up above. Instantly, Thurston had his rifle up, pointing it at Cecil, who looked down on them from the creature's kitchen counter.

“Come down here, or I'll shoot!” screamed Thurston.

“Carlos, look out!” yelled Cecil. Carlos dove out of the way just as something dark and sticky rained down from up above. The gun went off once again. Thurston leapt to his feet, although the water was now rising, making every movement clumsy. He was now completely coated in the dark, sticky substance. Carlos raised his knife, but suddenly, Thurston had the gun up, pointing it at him. 

But just then, a long green tentacle snaked out, wrapped itself around Thurston, and yanked him away. As Carlos looked on in horror, the Old One, which was now awakened, popped Thurston into its tentacled mouth and swallowed, emitting a satisfied burp.

Carlos felt a splash beside him. It was Cecil, who had hopped down from the kitchen counter up above. 

“What was that?” whispered Carlos.

“Chocolate,” said Cecil, licking a bit off his fingers. “The beast has a sweet tooth. I saw a lot of dessert cookbooks when I was up there.”

“Clever!” said Carlos. There was a huge rumble. The Old One writhed around, and then suddenly disappeared beneath the surface of the rapidly rising water.

“I think we need to get out of here, Cecil,” said Carlos. They half-ran, half-swam for the far ledge. They pushed and pulled each other up, as the water had nearly risen to that level.

“Carlos!” shouted Tamika. “We thought you were done for!”

“We need to get going, right now!” Carlos told her.

“We can only take one of ya,” said Barton. He pointed to where one of the copters had been bashed by a falling rock. “You need to decide. And quick!”

“We think we can possibly take us and one of you,” said Tamika. “But that's all.”

“Take Cecil,” said Carlos immediately.

“No. I'm staying with Carlos,” said Cecil stubbornly. “You two ride up.” 

“Cecil-” said Carlos.

“But we can't-” protested Tamika.

“Both of you!” commanded Cecil. “I don't like to pull rank, but I am your prince, so get up and out of here, now, or there shall be consequences!”

“What consequences?” asked Barton.

Cecil knelt down so he was eye to eye with Barton. “I shall look askance upon you,” he said quietly. “Now, go!”

The two children made to get into the copter. Carlos slipped his hand into Cecil's. “That was very brave,” he whispered.

“I don't care what happens,” Cecil insisted, “as long as I'm here with you.”

Carlos smiled and went to kiss him, to a hearty round of “Ewwww's” from the children, who were already riding up in the ‘copter.

“What's that?” asked Carlos, pointing upwards. There were shadows on the wall of the canyon.

And then, with the sound of beating wings, he was yanked upwards.

 

“Did you get all of them?” Josie fussed at her angels as they all alit back on the main level of Nightlantis.

“There are more children on the lower levels,” Carlos told her.

“We need to get them to safety,” said Cecil. “We owe them a large debt of gratitude.” 

Tamika and Barton both straightened up proudly. “We can help,” said Tamika. 

“Yeah, if we get to fly with angels again,” added Barton. Josie nodded to the angels, and they flew away with the children, who squealed in delight.

“Wish we'd thought of that when we needed to get down there,” Carlos groused as they watched them fly away.

“The angels won't interfere in most things,” said Josie. “But you'd already taken care of the sacrifice, so I told them to quit dilly-dallying and go help you.”

“Thurston ended up being the sacrifice?” asked Carlos. Josie nodded. “Then, as the children would say, ewww!”

“Thank you, Josie,” said Cecil, although Carlos still looked annoyed.

“By the way, Carlos,” said Josie, blinking through her thick spectacles, “I suppose you know that your portal is opened now.”

Carlos gasped. “What? Oh, good Lord, we have go! Cecil, come on!” Carlos took off running towards the edge of town and the passageway beyond. 

Cecil, looking confused, started waving goodbye to Josie, who wrapped him in a hug. “You take care of him, my dear,” she whispered.

“Come along, Cecil!” hollered Carlos, as the ground trembled underneath them. He and Cecil ran breakneck through Nightlantis as the ground continued trembling, and a deep rumbling went up from deep beneath the mountain. They finally came to the tunnel, and ran along towards where Carlos had fallen what now seemed so long ago.

As the ground shook, Carlos ran as fast as he could, panting and gesturing upwards. “I see a light! I think it's opened!”

Cecil, looking bewildered, ran along behind.

“There it is!” shouted Carlos. Indeed, there was now an opening visible up in the tunnel's rocky ceiling. “Come along,” he told Cecil, “we can climb up there.”

“Carlos,” said Cecil quietly, “you want me to- to come along?”

Carlos stopped. The ground was now trembling mightily. “What? I thought that was the point!”

“To leave my home … for the outside world.”

Carlos’s heart sunk. “Cecil, I told you I would show you the stars and the moon. Now, come on!”

“Yes, but you didn't ask me formally,” said Cecil, who looked a bit put out.

There was thick dust all around and it was getting hard to see. Carlos was thrown against the side of the tunnel when the ground lurched. “Cecil, be reasonable,” he pleaded. “I was going to marry you, for Heaven's sake.”

Bits of the tunnel ceiling were coming down all around them, but Cecil pouted. “Well, only because you felt sorry for me,” he said, looking away.

“Cecil, that's not-” There was a terrific rumble, and the ground shook violently. Carlos sighed, deciding there was nothing for it but to get it out. He dropped down on one knee. He thought for a moment, and then began, “Cecil, I hope the past days have proved that I harbor a great deal of affection for you in my heart-”

Cecil crouched down, taking Carlos's hands. “Oh, you don't need to go down on a knee for me!”

Carlos huffed in pure frustration. “But you wanted romance, Cecil!”

“I suppose I did,” laughed Cecil, who tugged Carlos upwards. But just then, the ground beneath them buckled, and Carlos stumbled backwards. He fell … upwards, into the doorway, as if invisible hands were pulling him in.

Desperately, he grabbed the door frame and attempted to brace himself. He held out a hand. “Cecil, come with me! I-”

“Carlos!”

The ground shook, Carlos lost his grip, and felt something wrenching him upwards.

He found himself, quite suddenly, in the water. He looked below him, choking and disoriented. He could see through the clear tropical waters that the island that housed Nightlantis was already sinking beneath the sea. He thrashed in the water, looking this way and that, but didn't see the portal door anywhere. Finally, he looked up, and could barely see light of the sun barely showing through the surface of the water. 

Kicking with all his might, he tried to ascend, but was held down by his now sodden clothing. His lungs began to burn. He yanked off his boots, and once again struggled towards to surface. Higher and higher he climbed, feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen. 

_Air._

He needed air.

And then it all went black.

 

Carlos sat up in bed. “Cecil,” he whispered.

“Get the Cap'n,” whispered a voice beside him. 

Carlos blinked, looking around the gently swaying room, utterly confused. “Where- Where am I?” he asked.

“Don't you know, lad?” asked the mate. “You're back on the _Vigilant_!”

“You waited for me?” exclaimed Carlos.

“Waited?” asked the Mate. “You were gone less than an hour.”

Carlos laid back, relieved. “Yes. Yes, time works differently in Nightlantis.”

“Where? Listen, lad,” the mate said, leaning over him, “we think you might've bumped your head, jumping in like that.”

“Have you- Have you recovered Thurston?” asked Carlos.

“No, body's likely washed out to sea.”

“Washed out? From the doorway?”

The mate was squinting at him. “What doorway?”

“The empty doorway on the island.” It was all coming back to him. “We went up to investigate, and found ancient ruins....”

“Ruins!” laughed the mate. “Ruins of what? You found a deserted isle. Not even real interesting, according to our men.”

“But, if I didn't jump into a doorway-”

The mate looked confused. “T'was no doorway, lad. Thurston pitched raving into a pool, and you plunged in after him. Half mad yourself, if you ask me!”

“No doorway?” said Carlos. 

“Oh, there you are!” boomed a familiar voice. Captain Cochrane entered the room and sat down next to him. “We thought we'd lost you. You were half drowned when we pulled you out.”

“I- I jumped in a pool?”

“Yes,” said Cochrane.

“There was no stone doorway?”

“Doorway?” The mate and Cochrane exchanged a puzzled glance. “I heard of no doorway. Did your brain get scrambled down there?”

Carlos tried to control his breathing. He noticed he was barefooted, wearing just his underclothes, and lying under a scratchy, woolen blanket. It looked like they had set him out in the mess room he usually used for surgery instead of his hammock. “What happened?” he asked.

“You went ashore on the island. You remember that?” Carlos nodded. “Thurston claimed it was supposed to be some kind of great lost civilization, but we saw no trace of that. Then that great fool started to rave about Old Ones and jumped down into a pool. You rushed in after him. Must have wanted to save his raving mad arse. But you both must have ended up washed out to sea.”

“That's what happened?” asked Carlos, rubbing his head. 

“Yes. We think you may have suffered a concussion, in the fall. You’re damn fault, always jumping into trouble!”

Carlos lay back. So it had all been a strange fever dream. Yet it had felt so real. But it was all poppycock, obviously – a civilization below a mountain. “Thurston?” he asked.

“We've seen hide nor hair of Thurston,” said Cochrane. 

“You were completely knocked unconscious,” added the mate.

“I was having-” Carlos began. “I had the strangest dream.”

“You were out. Lucky for you your friend dragged you in,” Cochrane continued.

“It was all...” Carlos began. “Wait, my friend, you said?”

“The native boy who rescued you?” said Cochrane. 

“Native boy?”

“Yes, out exploring or something. Another madman! We all thought he was an old man. Hair white as-”

“Moonlight!” said Carlos sitting up.

The captain looked at the mate. “Well, of course. Anyway, he claims he's your friend. Funny kid, but speaks good English, I have no idea how.”

“Is he here? Is he still here?”

“Well, yes, he's up on deck. We thought- Carlos!”

But Carlos had already grabbed the blanket around him and took off running for the deck. _I must look a madman_ , he thought, _gallivanting around the deck half-dressed and half-drowned_. It was night time, and the Vigilant was cutting silently through black waters.

And then he saw him, a silver-haired figure standing by the railing at the bow, gazing around in wonder. And then Carlos was behind him, wrapping him in an embrace.

“The stars!” said Cecil, pointing upwards. “Carlos, they're so lovely.” 

“They are,” said Carlos, arms tight around Cecil's waist.

“I never knew there would be so much void between them.”

Carlos didn't answer, but only held on, his heart beating, his eye welling up.

Cecil turned around to face him. “Carlos, are we going to have an adventure now?”

“Yes, my dearest,” said Carlos, tracing Cecil's face with the tips of his fingers. “Yes we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conical design of the underside of Nightlantis is based on Dante's layout of the circles of Hell. I doubt Cthulhu minds.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised 6 chapters, but I've given you a short epilogue as well, since people seem to like 'em.

_Epilogue_

_Strathlachland, Scotland, Year of Our Lord 1860_

Rafael sighed and gazed up at the vine-covered walls of his family estate, steeling himself. He heard a soft “ahem” next to him, and jutted out an elbow. Temperance, rubbing her bulging belly, took his arm. 

A liveried servant opened the wide front door, and, with children trailing behind, the couple stepped through the threshold. The Baron stood there in the cavernous main entryway, leaning on his cane. He looked a slightly less tall than he had been, slightly more hunched, but his eyes remained sharp. His wife was at his side, extending her arms.

“Nana!” screamed the children, who broke into a run to embrace her. She fell to her knees to receive their hugs and kisses.

The Baron extended a courteous hand, and Rafael shook it, gratefully. “Well, look at you,” the Baron told Temperance, giving her a quick kiss on the temple.

“Oh, my dear, you look marvelous,” gushed the Baroness, taking both of Temperance’s hands in hers. “How far along?”

“Still another three months, but I’m already big as a house,” said Temperance, once again gleefully rubbing her belly.

“What’s all that racket?” came a voice from up the staircase.

A squeal suddenly went up from the children. “Uncle Cecil!” they chorused. The boy and girl tumbled over to greet the dark-skinned, silver-haired man who was descending towards them.

“Who brought these rugrats?” asked Cecil in mock horror, grabbing the girl up on one hip. “I suppose you’ll be demanding a story from Uncle Cecil?”

“Yes!” they chorused.

“Well, as it happens, your Uncle Carlos and I just returned from the Antipodes. What do you think about that?” 

“Children, please don’t plague Uncle Cecil,” scolded Rafael. 

Cecil winked at Rafael and reached out a hand to the boy. “Do you want to see a platypus? We picked him up in Tasmania!”

“Yes!” shouted the boy, and then they were off, walking back out the front door, while the Baroness escorted Temperance to the sitting room.

“Your brother’s up in his study, if you want to converse,” the Baron told Rafael. “He probably lost track of time again.”

Rafael nodded and excused himself to go upstairs while the Baron and his wife continued fussing over Temperance. He somewhat nervously made his way along a darkened hallway to Carlos’s rooms.

“Rafael, is that you?” called Carlos, who was indeed ensconced in his study. He rose from his desk and, ignoring his brother’s outstretched hand, wrapped him in an embrace. “I’m so sorry, I must have lost track of time.”

“It’s all right,” said Rafael, who was blushing slightly as Carlos pounded him on the back.

“Care to go outside for a smoke? It’s a fine day?” Rafael nodded. Carlos opened his humidor, and after grabbing cigars, they passed through the French doors to a small balcony overlooking the estate. 

“I’ve heard congratulations are in order,” said Carlos, settling into a chair.

Rafael puffed on his smoke and leaned against the railing, heaving a sigh. “Twins this time, or so they tell me.”

“Great news!”

Rafael looked dubious. “Carlos, if I had any idea Temperance would be so … _fertile_ ….”

Carlos roared with laughter. 

Rafael’s face took on a morose cast. “My two are tormenting their Uncle Cecil now. If you’d like, I can call them off.”

“It’s no problem. We’d like to get to know your children, so I can more easily pick who I’ll want to disinherit.”

Rafael scowled at his brother, who once again burst into laughter. 

“To be serious, Rafael, will you require more financial recompense?” Carlos asked. “We want to assure for the children’s education.”

“We’re fine. You have been most generous.” He sighed again. “And, as I have often said, I am most grateful to you for smoothing things over with Mother and Father.”

Carlos waved his hands. “It was nothing with Mother: she’ll do anything to see her grandchildren. But as I’ve warned you….”

“No hint of scandal,” sighed Rafael, sounding more than a bit wistful.

“No returning to your former ways. At least while Mother is still alive,” Carlos warned.

Rafael turned his back on Carlos to gaze out over the estate, smoking for a while, deep in thought. “When we originally arranged this visit I didn’t expect to find you and Cecil here today,” he finally said. “I thought you were still out on your latest expedition.”

Carlos shrugged. “We had originally planned to be away longer, but turned around and made for home as soon as we received the news about Father’s stroke. He appears to be doing well though.”

Rafael came and sat down in the chair next to his brother, looking concerned. “Is that your opinion as a physician?”

“My opinion as a physician is that he’ll outlive the both of us.”

Rafael sighed and appeared to sag. “He will me, probably. I’m not so certain about you. You appear highly contented these days, Carlos.”

Carlos sat back, looking contented as a house cat. “Perhaps because I am?”

“Will you ever tell me the true story of how you and Cecil … became acquainted?”

“We’ve already told you everything.”

Rafael derisively waved around his cigar. “I don’t mean Cecil’s phantastical tales.”

Carlos leaned forward. “Rafael, as you must have learned by now, sometimes the phantastical is also true.”

“Papa!” came squeals from the doorway, as two children hurtled themselves towards Rafael.

“Uncle Cecil has a platypus!” “In the duck pond!” “And he has a beak like a duck!” “And webbed toes!” “And he swims!” “And he’s Albert!” “And he comes when he calls!” “And he’s from Tasmoonia!”

“Tasmania,” supplied Cecil, who was standing at the door, grinning.

“Children,” scolded Rafael, who was struggling to stand up. “Aren’t you going to greet your Uncle Carlos?”

“Hullo Uncle Carlos!” they chorused, and tumbled into his lap one by one for kisses. Then they were back to tugging on their father. “Come and see! Come and see!”

Rafael rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be swept off the balcony by the tide of toddlers.

When they had all gone, Carlos smiled at Cecil, and patted his leg. Cecil came over and sat on his knee, and Carlos kissed him softly on the temple. They took care, when they were in mixed company, but Carlos figured he could do as he wished on his own estate, and everyone be damned.

“When they get a little older, we can take them along on a voyage perhaps,” said Carlos.

Cecil’s eyes grew big. “That would be wonderful!” He nestled into Carlos. “Oh, Carlos, do you regret that we can’t have them?”

Carlos shrugged. “We could have them, if we wanted.” Cecil sat up and looked dubious. “There’s orphans enough in this county,” Carlos explained. “Like the lost children in Nightlantis. If you wanted, there are many children who want and deserve a home.”

Cecil gasped. “You would do that?”

“Of course.”

Cecil leapt to his feet. “Carlos, we need a child!”

“Right now?” laughed Carlos. “I haven’t finished my cigar.”

“Oh, hang your cigar. Come on! There’s no time to waste!”

“Cecil, it’s not like picking out a damned puppy or kitten.”

But Cecil would not be talked down. “We should go now. Our niece and nephew are here, they could help select a suitable cousin!”

Carlos regarded Cecil for a long moment. “All right, all right.” Cecil clapped his hands. Carlos tapped his cigar into the ash tray. “I suppose you’ll want to bring along Albert the platypus as well?”

“Oh, what a capital idea!” said Cecil, and he tugged Carlos off the balcony, and into their home.

It was silent for a short while out on the balcony, except for the whispering of the wind. And then a striped tabby cat leapt up and sat on the railing, grinning and switching its tail.


End file.
